


Collared

by SilverBlaze85



Series: Collared [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Master/Slave, Mental Abuse, References to Suicide, Slavery, Suicide Attempt, WIP despite the status, not as bad as the tags make it sound
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-26
Updated: 2013-01-26
Packaged: 2017-11-26 23:06:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 26,226
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/655374
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SilverBlaze85/pseuds/SilverBlaze85
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A slave-fic AU in which the boys aren't hunters. Dean is an obscenely wealthy guy who buys himself a pretty little slave.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

  
_Okay, I've held off on posting this, since I didn't have a title, and it was fighting me something awful. And then I realized why. After almost a lifetime of writing, and ten years of writing seriously under the advice of an editor, you'd THINK that I'd learn to not fight the stories. If the story and the characters want to do something, let them do it._

So, on that note, this suddenly took turns I wasn't even expecting. I'm up for suggestions on titles. And... possibly a beta. This may be bigger than I realized at first. *gnaws her lip*

Generic warnings for the whole thing : Slavery, collaring, may possibly delve into Wincest... I don't ATM, but I'll be sure to alert everyone if it does. If so, it'll be WAY late in the story, got it?

Beyond that, I'm not doing this for profit, and it's an AU anyway, so I reserve the right to make errors. If it's glaring and you know better, please, let me know. Educate me, and I'll fix it in the story. It's fiction, remember??

____________________________________________________________________________

“Sir?”

Dean Winchester, multi-millionaire, and heir to a fortune more, folded down the corner of his paper to better look at his right-hand man, assessing with a glance before putting the paper aside, resting it on the heirloom, solid rose-wood desk, worn to a deep mahogany with years of handling. Robert’s voice held that note; there was something that he wanted Dean’s full attention on, and the Master would oblige.

“Yeah?”

The bodyguard rolled his shoulders, stalled for a split second before spilling. “Rumor is, Blake has a new slave he found, special for you. Seems legit.”

Shit. Dean leaned back in his chair, steepled his fingers, pressed the tips against his mouth as he thought. He’d been tossing the notion around, contemplating if it was worth the work to get a new slave already, since Stephan had made noises about it, or just hang it out a little longer. But his knee-jerk reaction to having one already picked was to deny it, to refuse on principle alone. 

Trouble was, Blake was a regular, and Dean knew if he said no, not only would he lose the slave, but he probably wouldn’t like where the kid would end up, and he’d have compounded the problem by upsetting the slave dealer. He held his breath, let it out in a steady rush, tapped his fingers against his mouth in thought. “He say the price?”

Robert shook his head, rocking his weight back and forth from balls of feet to heels casually. “No. Just that he got the merchandise, wanted to let you have first dibs, if you wanted him.”

The man had been the right-hand man to his father for years, and Dean saw no difference in the way he treated the heir than the previous. He had been bought by Dean’s grandfather, released as soon as his Dad had taken the reins over, and had liked the man enough to stay on. And Dean liked him for more than the experience he brought to the table… he also didn’t hesitate to lay it all out if that’s what Dean wanted.

He thought it some more, finally sighed in resignation and sat forward, crooking a grin as he shrugged. “Can’t hurt to check it out, right?”

Robert just inclined his head, stepping out to ready the car.

/\/\/\/\

Dean mused on the drive, watching the scenery shift from isolated woods and random fields ready to harvest to the crowded stench of the city, that he had influence over the majority of this. His entire family was filthy rich… enough that he held power over the government, could sway things the way he wanted with enough words. He had made enough of his own investments that had panned out a considerable profit that he no longer felt guilty for using the wealth the way he did now. Robert cast a glance over to his Master, and Dean shrugged, letting his thoughts drift as they want. It had taken awhile, but Blake was a decent flesh-dealer. He knew, now at least, to keep his trap shut, and offer Dean the choicest bits, the delectable morsels of his trade. But for him to take this sort of initiative rubs at Dean, makes him contemplate finding another to indulge him. He spent the rest of the drive contemplating it, finally decided he’d table the idea for awhile… see what sort of present the worm had found.

The dealer’s den always amused Dean, to an extent, and he passed under the teary visage of the Virgin Mother as he knocked on the heavy oak door. Through the stained glass he saw movement, and a moment later, the door opened, the dealer bowing low as he stepped back. Robert took a deep breath, spreading ribs and shoulders wide, making his frame rather intimidating, and the dealer flinched, led them without a word. Ever since Robert had taken a special offense to Blake’s tone on Dean’s behalf, well… the slaver was rather twitchy near the bodyguard. Robert rolled his eyes, showing his blatant disgust at the attempt at flattery. It wasn’t as if they didn’t know where they were going.

Once they get into the lower levels of the church, the temp drops, as if God frowns here, and Dean tugs his jacket closer, tries to remain impassive to the slaves they pass. It’s apparent there’s a new shipment; some have eyes still glittering in fear and anger, wrists and throats bruised badly under the thick and heavy shackles. Milled among them are the older ones, the ones that Blake liked personally, and they’re easy to spot. Their eyes have long since gone blank, reduced to mere machines at this point. They kneel as he passes, yank the chains of the newer ones, teaching them the skills to ‘survive’, and he internally flinches that they can recognize him so easily.

It’s definitely time to find a new dealer.

He follows Blake to the furthest room, careful to keep his eyes on the bare toes that curl and grip the cold flagstones. It’s degrading enough for them to be slaves, no need to add insult to injury by stepping on their toes. Literally.

The flesh-dealer opens the door, and the low, menacing growl that rumbles out is more felt than heard, and Dean raises a brow, not surprised as Robert slides a hand under his jacket. Dean figures Blake isn’t stupid enough to try to off him, but that’s what Robert gets paid to assume. The worm actually frowns, flips on a light that instantly cuts the growl and sends the youth flinching. The room is cold, dark without the flood lights, and it’s no doubt a shock to the slave’s eyes. He only flinches for a moment though before raising heated hazel eyes that are snapping in outrage and anger. “See, my good sir? My men found him, and I couldn’t help but think he’d be perfect for you. I had them handle him extra careful for you. He’s thoroughly unused.” Blake twists his heavy gold ring, obviously nervous but excited at the chance to seal a deal, and Dean pulls up his mask, lets himself slide into the act of a bored, insanely-wealthy pervert.

He picks his way neatly around the cage, eyes shuttered and guarded, as he watches the young man inside.He’ll admit, the boy is a pretty one. Tall as hell, even when he factored in the platform the cage sat on. Longer chocolate locks are limp, hanging into hazel eyes that are still snapping in anger, absolutely no fear in them. There’s a darling cleft in his chin, pulling attention to his strong and clenched jaw. There’s a generic collar on the youth, plain beaten metal, locked close with a tiny gold padlock, and a glance to wrists show the same treatment again, the chain between them gilded. He pictures his own buttery-soft restraints on the slim joints, encircling the slender throat, and cocks a smirk at the boy. Dean filters through words as he completes his circuit, noticing the eyes watching him express such hatred. His shoulders are broad under the white tee, and though it hangs off him a little, cheeks hollowed out a bit, there’s no gauntness that indicates prolonged starvation, or abuse. “He is…very worthy. You did well.”

The worm looks pleased, dark eyes greedy as he bobs his head like the quail Dean has in his yard. “Thank you, sir. I thought you’d appreciate him, sir.” The youth in the cage hisses, and Dean smirks at him again, turns back to the dealer.

“The price?”

“6.” Dean’s eyes narrow; the youth is worthy, yes, but not exotic. The most he’s paid here is not over four thousand, and that was for a very unique boy. He glances at his nails, buffs them lightly on his jacket as Robert shifts ominously behind them.

“I decline.”

“But sir! He is perfect! Untouched!” Dean watches him blankly, and the man chews his finger, finally sighs. “Alright. I suppose I can do 5, but no lower, mind you.”

“I decline.” He turns to leave, makes it three steps before the dealer rushes at him, anxious.

“4!”

“You’ll make it three, or there’s no deal.” The words are cold and bored, but the dealer nods, hands him keys eagerly. “Very well.” He eyes the youth, who’s gone still, alarm apparent in his hazel eyes, and smiles coldly. “Robert? Bring the boy to the car.”

Blake knows him well enough to not argue over the lack of money at the moment. He’ll receive his payment later the next day, in trade for a bill of sale, and the pedigree and linage will be a few days past that. The dealer knows better than to try anything with Dean.

Robert takes a step towards the cage, and the result is instantaneous, the fear now springing into those eyes as the boy backs against the far wall of the cage, shaking slightly. Dean rubs the back of his neck, hating the quivering in the child, and sighs hard. The guard glances at his Master, and Dean raises a brow, indicates its Robert’s choice. “Shall I restrain or sedate, Sir?”

Dean weighs the choices… sedation would by far be easier, but he doesn’t want to damage his newest acquirement. But the chance of the boy bolting… well. He runs his tongue across his teeth, tosses the keys to the collar to the bodyguard. “You may want to borrow some of Blake’s slaves, to help hold him down until the drugs take effect.”

It takes six of the burly guards, plus Robert, and the boy still manages to fight until the drug pulls him down deep. Perversely, Dean is a little pleased by that.

/\/\/\/\

He has Robert let him out at the Main House, lets the guard carry on to the stables to settle in the boy. It’s cruel, he knows, but it’s also easier to restrain the youth in the barn than in the house, safer for everyone involved. He’s not stupid, knows that many a slave wouldn’t hesitate to slit his throat in his sleep, and he also knows that he’s pissed off enough people, they would merrily take a slave from him. The barn is more secure, with Stephan sleeping out with the horses every night, able to keep a keenly trained ear on everything.

He kicks his shoes off, settling them just inside the door as he sighs in relief, letting his feet sink into the thick plushy carpeting. It’s a sinful indulgence, really, but one that he has yet to regret. His stomach mutters, and he slowly makes his way to the dining room, following the thick and heady scent of supper and the quiet giggles of the kitchen girls.

 Allie, his cook, has his meal ready, plate set out at his spot and covered to stay warm, though he has no doubt she set it down minutes after Robert let him out. The roast is the venison he took down a few weeks back, still tender and succulent, and he nibbles it as he flips through the mail, sorting out what needs done tonight and what can hold off until the morning. He knows by now that they know of the new arrival, that she’s packed a plate for the youth in case he’s awake, and she settled the small portion in the bottom of a basket, tucks warmed towels around it, and covered the thing with apples and carrot chunks, pieces that aren’t fit for her standards, but perfect for his stallion.

He isn’t surprised when she refills his glass, cocks a hip imprudently, and raises a brow. Gossip travels fast, and even faster when the property is as small as his home one.

“Got a new one, eh?” Her accent is thick, even if it’s mixed from several countries, and he offers a smile.

“Yes. Blake found him ‘special’.” Dean leans back, chews his lip as he watches the sun paint the skies, lighting the forests in multicolored fires, the leaves all bright in their fall colors of reds and oranges and yellows. He chose this room specifically for the dining room because of the view out the full-length windows; it soothes him as much as it awes guests. Be it spring, summer, autumn or winter, the vista is a stunning one. Allie hums, a non-committal noise, and wipes down the table, cants green eyes at him shrewdly.

“Got an idea where you’re workin him?”

He huffs a laugh, shakes his head. “I don’t even know his name yet. Why? Are you needing more house helpers?” His servants know him well enough by now, know they can ask things they couldn’t of his grandfather, and he’s surprised when she tips her head.

“I wouldn’t turn down another one, especially a strappin boy, but we’re makin do with what we got. Especially if Stephan needs the help.” He hadn’t thought of that, and he thinks on it for a few moments, until Allie is eying his place. Pushes himself from the table, grabs the basket with a murmur of thanks as he ducks out through the kitchens, lets her descend upon the table. She’s an excellent worker; takes any smudge or crumb as a personal affront, and while his Mama raised him to clean up after himself, she works herself into a frenzy if he doesn’t at least leave _something_ for her to tidy.

The walk to the stables is a bit of a hike, but the air has turned chill and brisk, typical of Autumn, and he loves the mosaic of colors, the scent of wood smoke, leaves dropping and rotting, the last traces of hay, and the warning of frost in the air. He chews his lip as he closes the last of the distance, gravel crunching under his boots, and decides that if the boy doesn’t take too much time, he may take Kaz on a run, take the stallion down to the river via the deer trails. He heard the baying of the hounds a few days ago, thinks that the deer are moving around again. It wouldn’t hurt to see where they’re at, make notes for when the larder gets low again.

Robert is huffing outside the slave pen, eyes narrowed at his master. Dean laughs, teases. “What’s the matter Bobby, the age sneakin up on you?” Robert isn’t that old, bitches like an old man though, and Dean trusts the elder knows it’s all in jest.

“Boy woke up, is what.” He rubs his jaw lightly, and Dean can now see the swelling starting to settle in, the red imprints of knuckles beneath the stubble, and his joviality fades as he pauses.

“There’s no way. The amount of sedative alone should have had him out all night.” He’s got a good eye for mass, calibrates doses to ensure the new slaves will be down if they have to be, down for several hours.

Robert snorts, rolls his shoulders in aggravation. “Well, he did. I was comin to get you… I think he tore up his shoulder with that little maneuver.” He flushes at Dean’s dark look, scuffs a worn boot in the faint dust of the stable walkways. “I already had him tethered when he started to come around. I don’t think that he knew he was bound up.”

Dean doesn’t bother answering, just glances in through the thick green bars on the top of the stall doors. Sure enough, the left shoulder of the youth is deformed, arm curled around his waist loosely as he pants, eyes still glassy with the drugs in his system and pain. Dean has a sinking suspicion that this boy is going to be a bigger handful than he first assumed. “Damnit,” he sighs, running his tongue over his molars. This was exactly what was NOT supposed to happen. This was the reason he sedated the more feisty ones that first night, so they can rest and not wind up hurt any more than necessary.

Nothing to be done for it though, aside from just getting in there and fixing it. He lingers a moment or two longer, dreading the idea of it, but knowing there just isn’t any other option. “Alright, come on Bobby, help me out here.” He unlatches the stall door, boots sliding a moment before biting into the concrete enough to use his body to push it along the tracks. The slave stall, and Kaz’s door, were weighted down with iron inside the wooden frame, and each one weighed a small ton; insurances against his property getting away too easily.

  



	2. Chapter 2

  


~~*^*~~

He doesn’t sleep. Years of watching over the horses and the caravans at night have taught him skills that come in oh so useful now; dozing lightly, allowing his body the rest it craves while keeping his mind sharp enough to jolt awake at the slightest sense of change on the air. Catnaps, they used to call them, when you don’t really sleep, but hover over that edge. Just enough to keep the body and the mind pushing for days longer than it could otherwise.

The pain helps.

The man had come in, slow and easy movements, studied casualness as he crouched on the cement floor, hands loose and open between his knees as he watched with intense green eyes, body loose and easy and intent. Said he wouldn’t hurt him, just wanted to fix the shoulder that had ripped free of its socket with a breath-taking pop, the one that sent sheets of fire through his body every time he breathed. Had asked for almost a half hour for permission to fix it, and that didn’t match with what the slaver had said about his new owner.

_He’ll tear you up, in ways you can’t even imagine, and then toss you aside. Not one slave I’ve ever sold him has been seen again. The man’s got the Devil scared of him, he’s so evil. Bet you won’t even last a week._

He pretended to be dumb, skittering his eyes away from the gaze. The eyes hold power, can bewitch you if you’re not careful, and if they think he can’t understand them, then it’s an ace in his sleeve that he can use. Eventually the man had sighed, striding close, letting him shy away until the chains tugged taut, and it was a quick, easy, fast movement that sent a pained whimper out of his throat as the joint ground and fought and finally slid home with a wet and sickening noise, twisting his gut with sound and the pain. The man’s hands had been gentle, guiding him down onto the floor as his knees buckled, and again confusion slipped in his mind.

“Supper, for you. It’s venison, so…” His owner had set the basket close enough for the smell to tempt, but he wasn’t dumb. It was drugged, and even if it wasn’t, there was no way a slave was going to get venison.

The basket still sat there, untouched, and his stomach grumbled and muttered unhappily. _‘Get used to it, buddy,’_ he thought, shifting on the straw as he shivered. It wasn’t cold; the warmth of the horse bodies and the straw was enough to make it drowsy-warm, and the stall was draft-free. The manacles on his wrists and ankles were chilly, but not enough to keep him cold. The shivers were his body begging for sleep, and shifting seemed to stop it. He let his head thump back on the wall gently, eyes watching the ceiling as he let his body doze again, trying to let the throbbing of his shoulder disappear.

When the screaming and thudding from the stall next to him shot pure adrenaline into his veins the next morning, it was hard to keep from panicking. “Goddamnit, you beast!!” Thuds rattled from overhead, a light dust raining down, and he froze, quivering with the need to move and the knowledge that he wasn’t going anywhere. Not with the thick logging chains buried deep in the concrete. Not in an unknown area. Another scream that he quickly recognized as equine, not human, and the solid thud of hooves against a stall door made the tension bleed free a little. Not a human being tortured. The voice came closer, growling and muttering. “Worse than a damned alarm clock, I swear. Give him a godforsaken minute you brute.”

The huff of breath suggested a big horse, or a seriously mean one, and he edged further away from the other wall as the thuds started up again. His own door opened a crack, and a shrewed-looking man peers through, grins widely. “Well, you ain’t deaf. No other way to sleep through that beast’s racket in the morning.” His gaze drops to the basket, still covered and untouched, and the joviality drops from his face in a heartbeat. “Oh, he ain’t gonna like that. Not one bit.” He sighs and shakes his head as he slips free of the gap of the door, and the wood slides shut again.

Great. He’s stalled like a damned horse next to Satan’s own steed, and he’s just pissed off his master.

As if summoned by the thought, the door to outside creaks open, letting in the early morning light and the sharp bite of cold, and he shivers as he hears the new owner’s voice turn low and husky nearby. “Good morning baby. You realize I could hear you up at the house?” The tone is quiet and overflowing with affection, and he hears the beast next door whicker quietly, can hear the shuffle as it backs away from the door as the portal opens with a little noise. “You, my love, are amazing at telling time.” There’s crunching noises, happy sounds if he ever heard them, and he cocks his head as the voice changes; sharper and louder now. “Stephan. Any troubles last night?”

The hostler just laughs, and the thump he hears he assumes is a boot kicking a wall. “Just this brute, waking up the damned county this morning. He knows when you’re late.” The tone is accusing, but the man just laughs.

“Had to get breakfast for our new friend.” The tone drops back into the almost bedroom voice from before, murmuring quietly. “Oh yes, I did. It took a few minutes, but you knew that. Gods forbid I not be down here by the time the cock crows, huh?” There’s the distinct sound of a hand slapping horseflesh, and the door shuts again. “Food time for all, then we’ll let you out to play, okay baby?”

Somehow, he doubts the beast’s name is Baby. But it’s possible.

He scrambles to his feet as the door to his own prison opens, and his new owner steps in, watching him warily. It’s familiar, and it takes him a moment to place it. The body language is the same as someone trying to keep from spooking an easily frightened horse; all loose and exaggerated movements, slow and smooth and calm. Green eyes flicker down to the basket, still sitting exactly where it was last night, and he can’t help the instinctive step back at the anger that glimmers for a moment in that gaze.

The sound of the chains sliding over each other seems to stop the emotion though, and the man sighs hard, scrubbing a hand roughly across his face. “Can’t say as it surprises me. You were supposed to eat this though. Good thing I brought breakfast then, eh?” He trades out a pale pine basket for the other one, but there’s no reaction from the slave. He knows better than that. He chews the inside of his lip, just a little, just enough that his owner won’t see.

Gods, but he’s hungry. The slaver wasn’t about to try to feed him while he had a good range of motion, and the weeks prior had been scarce with food. He’s got enough weight on him though, that he can afford the show of mulish determination. He won’t eat, and the man who paid for him can’t make him.

Because if he eats, he’ll consume the drugs that are lacing the food, and then he’ll be even more at this man’s mercy than he already is. If the owner makes a move now, at least he has his wits about him. If he takes the feed, he won’t even have that.

The other man waits several minutes, just watching, before he stands, dusting his hands off on worn but still nice jeans. “Stephan.” The hostler pops his head in a minute later, brows raised curiously.

“Yeah boss?”

“He said a word yet?” The jerk of a head indicates exactly who ‘he’ is, and Stephan shakes his head.

“Not that I’ve heard. Didn’t say a word as your brute started up this morning, either. Not a peep.” The owner nods distantly, and the hostler thumps his fist on the doorway before ducking out again. He likes to make a lot of noise, apparently. His new owner turns back to him, leaning carefully against the wall.

“So either you’re mute, which makes no sense, or you can’t speak our language. But given your reaction last night at Blake’s, I doubt that as well.” He can feel the flush that heats his skin; he’d been livid last night, terror blending with rage into a potent new emotion, and he’d forgotten about that slip up. His new owner is observant, he’ll grant the man that much. “Or, you’re just pissed off and scared and being a stubborn little ass.” The flush is stronger; he can almost feel the heat radiating off his skin, and the other man laughs, low and cocky. “Yeah, that’s what I thought. Boy, you’re not the first slave I’ve had, and I wasn’t born last week.”

Silence. After a few minutes, the sounds of the horses feeding and shuffling and the general noise intrudes again, and he finds his shoulders slipping down a little, loosening their defensive hunch. He startles when the man pushes off the wall, arms still tight across his chest.

“Alright, simple is best, I think. The sooner you calm down, and realize I’m not going to hurt you, the sooner your life will improve. I have plans for you that don’t involve standing in a dusty stall all day.” The man shrugs, the canvas jacket whispering over what looks like a silk shirt, the movement casual and careless. “Eat, get a little sleep, and we’ll look into getting you a bath and some decent clothes. Your papers will be here later this week, and we’ll see where you’re from, alright? Get your name, unless you want to tell me.”

He doesn’t answer, and the man nods, leaving and shutting the door firmly. A second later there’s rustling in the stall where Satan’s Steed resides, and he strains to hear the soft murmur of his owner, the voice a low and steady noise. Almost comforting. If he’d close his eyes, he has no doubt he’d be asleep in minutes, and not just because he’s pushing four days without it. A metallic clinking sound, and there’s hoofbeats moving, the sound of horseshoes on stone.

When there’s a motion of movement in the corner of his eye, he turns, and gapes a little. The bars above the wooden door of his stall are pretty high; his owner had to stand on tiptoe to see in, and he thinks he may _just_ be able to see through them himself without stretching. So when his gaze meets a warm brown one, he’s startled.

The ears and the bit of the face he can see are as black as midnight, fur glossy and sleek, and the damned thing is _huge_. The horse snorts abruptly, turning to better view him, and he hears his owner mutter something. He’s not really paying attention, more focused on the gaze that’s probing him intently. “Kaz, come on. Now.” The horse’s head moves a little, like someone yanking on a lead rope, and it snorts, tossing its head abruptly. The halter is a striking silver against the shiny coat, and loose enough even he can see at this distance, it’s just for show. The horse blows out a breath, stamping a foot, and he hears the master growl low. “Kaz. Now. That’s not a request.” He sees the hand grip the halter just under Kaz’s chin, and pull the horse down and away. “You can meet him later, if he behaves. Hell, if you behave. Want to go see the colts?” The steps and voice fade away, and he slides down the wall, sitting hard on the straw. The last half hour has given him entirely too much to think about, and his head throbs dizzily, begging for food and sleep and quiet. He shoves it away, and starts carefully pondering the information that’s been handed to him.

~~*^*~~

When Kaz and their owner come back, hours later, it’s turning dusky outside, the sun starting to settle down for the night. He can see the tips of the trees through the bars at the top of his pen, and the sky is slowly turning into a stunning watercolor, casting the last lingering leaves into dark shadows.

He’s dozing again, the sounds of the stable muffling into a generic white noise that’s oddly soothing, when he hears the solid noise of the large horse passing his prison. It pauses again, shuffling around anxiously until the man tugs him into the stall next door, huffing in what he suspects is supposed to be anger, but is nothing if not amusement and affection. He fights himself free of the cloying caresses of Morpheus as the sound of a horse being un-tacked drifts across the high bars and through the wooden wall, struggles to wake up and be alert, even as the room spins nauseatingly. “God Kaz, did you bring in the entire river with you? Did you _see_ the mud on your feathers?” The voice is low with amusement, interlaced with the blatant husk of love, and the sound of a low whicker is a good counterpoint. The sounds continue a bit longer, low murmurs that don’t always reform into words, and he startles out of his doze as the stall door shuts. He sits up fully, scrubbing a hand over his eyes as his door opens up, the man coming in silently.

He trades out a new basket for the old one, smiling at the empty weight. “Good. Decide to play nice for awhile?” He doesn’t respond, just watches warily, and the master just smiles a little sadly, gaze dimming before he stamps a food unconsciously, nodding. “Alright. Sleep well then. Eat some of that, and we’ll see about getting you a bath tomorrow, okay?” The man gathers up the basket and slips out, and the entire barn goes dimmer as he dials down the lights before shutting the main doors.

It wasn’t that he wanted to play nice so much; more of the fact that the basket had been whole, unpeeled fruits and eggs that had been cooked solid in the shell. He’d spent hours carefully turning over each piece, searching and scouring for any marks or blemishes to indicate a needle had gone in, and even then had been reluctant to actually bite. The water had been sealed in new bottles, the seal cracking smartly as he turned the cap, and the food had gone a long way to inducing a drowsy state. It wasn’t drugs, he knew; just the exhaustion catching up to him. He still wanted to fight, to toss his head in determination and prove he wasn’t broken, but the logical part of his mind whispered that it would prove smarter in the long run, to act meek and quiet, to pretend to be tame, and make a break for it as soon as possible.

He nibbles the dinner meal half-heartedly, not really hungry, but knowing his plan will work best if the owner thinks he ate some. He lets out a tired sigh, stretching out on the straw, and just manages to get his toes to brush the wall housing Satan’s steed. If he was any shorter, he doubts it would even work. But it does, if it’s a smidge uncomfortable, and he lets down the shields he’s held tight for months. Lets the gift that his people hate him for, fear him for, and almost instantly relaxes as the faint impressions of _warm comfort sleepy content herd-is-safe_ wash over him. Kaz is too far away, the link doesn’t fully work without touch, but he’s close enough that the basic emotions can cover him like a warm and familiar blanket.

~~*^*~~

Dean is a bit worried when Stephan rings on the main line, asking him to get down to the stables quietly, but when he meets the hostler outside, the man is just smiling. Holds a finger to his lips to indicate silence, and slithers back inside without a noise.

The slave is stretched out, sound asleep and limp, his toes just pressed against Kaz’s stall wall. And his baby, the massive black stallion, is pressed firmly against the same wall, laying on the sawdust and watching him sleepily. The horse has an obvious look of protection on his equine features, and Dean smiles, shakes his head, and makes his way back up to the main house quietly, ready for his own bed.

~~*^*~~  



	3. Collared, Chapter 3

  
Alright everyone, here's chapter 3. It fought a bit longer, but once we got it worked out, it actually wound up spreading out to 7 pages. So... really glad everyone was impatient for it and didn't suggest I merge this one with the next one! XD 

Got a few more fics to release in the next 9 days, and then I'll be off to AnimePunch! Whoot! *goes back to the writing table* Enjoy everyone!

~~*^*~~

He misses the barn door opening, somehow. His first jolt awake is the flood of joy and excitement and _Here, here!HerdLeaderIsHere_ that spills over from Kaz before the horse moves away, severing the fragile connection abruptly. He scrambles to his feet, blinking hard in the dim light, disoriented in a way he hasn’t been in a long time. He’s still not sure he’s awake when his own door opens, and his master steps in warily, green eyes going concerned quickly.

“Hey, you okay?” He flicks his gaze up, nods once, a quick dip of his chin, one hand on the cement wall behind him. The room isn’t steady still, but he doesn’t think he’ll pass out. Well, hopes is a better word. “Alright then. Breakfast for you.” The man doesn’t sound too sure, but trades out basket for basket again, and he wants to groan. He’s not really hungry. He ate more yesterday than he had all week, and it’s still sitting sullenly in his belly. The man pauses and watches him for a few beats more, until the thundering clamor of Kaz’s hooves on the wood pulls him away.

He nibbles the warm and tender muffin slowly, listening to the soft noises next door as the horse whickers and blows hard, and the man responds just as quietly and lovingly. And he tries to not worry about what the day is going to bring.

~~*^*~~

It’s about an hour later, after the morning ritual of noises and the sounds of large animals being led, and quiet has descended upon the stable again, when his master comes back, opening the door wide and stepping in again. He’s got a short leash in one hand, and a keychain in the other. “Hey kid. You going to tell me your name yet?”

He lets the silence drag on, and the man shrugs carelessly, steps close enough to touch. The body guard is a massive presence in the doorway, wide shoulders looming silently. “Told ‘ya.”

“Shush.” The master turns back to him, eyes light as new spring grass. “I figured we hadn’t really had an introduction yet. Name’s Dean. And you, my newest friend, need a bath.” In a quick motion that’s more startling than anything else that’s happened so far, Dean deftly clips the lead onto the collar around his throat, and stops, watching. His eyes are wary, but the rest of him is serene and nonchalant. “You gonna fight me on this?”

He wants to. Wants to shove the man down hard, slip past the looming male in the doorway, and run for all he’s worth. Let the sky and the sun wash over him and forget the feel of the thick leather and heavy chains. But he knows, as surely as he knows night will fall tonight, and the sun will rise again in the morning, that he wouldn’t make it three steps. So he shakes his head, goes still and meek as the master unlocks the thick chain from his neck, and he can’t restrain the relieved noise he makes as the pressure fades away. Dean cocks a grin at him before undoing the other four chains, and the absence of the weight is a beautiful, beautiful thing.

He’s alert, and makes careful notations, as he’s allowed out of the stall for the first time, fully conscious. The stable screams ‘wealthy’… the outsides of the stable doors are sleek and shimmer like honey, golden and warm. Some of the stalls have a plaque with a name etched into the metal affixed under the green bars, and he notes that those stalls have bridle hanging above a neat, thick lead rope, outside each door. Aside from his door, and the door to Kaz’s stall, the doors are solid wood, about waist high, and then it changes to thick green bars. All the doors are open, exposing soft sawdust and empty hay feeders, but he doesn’t see anyone.

He catches Dean watching him, and he curses the heat he can feel flooding his face as he drops his gaze to the smooth and warm walkway under his bare feet as he plods along behind them silently. The walkways are straight, but intersect and cross so often, he’s a little dazed when Dean stops, opening a set of double white doors, the space beyond yawning dark and ominous.

Robert steps ahead, and flips on a switch, letting light flood the space, and he feels silly when it illuminates the wooden benches that sit amid the green and blue tiles on the walls, and grey stones that pass as flooring. The click of Dean’s boots echo hollowly against the stone and ceramic, and the steel of the cabinets lining one wall, and he swallows hard, apprehension tickling along his spine. Robert leans easily against the wall, an arm’s reach away from the door, and crosses thick arms across his chest; a study of lax and ease, even if it’s a lie. His master leads him to a bench, where a bowl of water and some rags, and two rolls of colored material lay, and the dread is coiling like an oily snake in the pit of his belly, and he absently wonders if the muffin is going to stay put, or make an unwelcome reappearance. And then the elder male sits on the bench, legs spread casually, and he’s seen worker girls doing things, _wicked_ things to men in this position.

“Come here,” Dean coaxes, gently snagging his wrist cuffs and tugging him closer, until he stands in the vee of his master’s legs. “Kneeling would probably be more comfortable for the moment, but it’s up to you,” the man murmurs, not letting go of the wrist in his grip as he wet the rag. He sinks to his knees, apprehension licking through him as he obeys. Just because he’s not aware of anything he’s done wrong, doesn’t mean he’s not looking at punishment. The apprehension jumps to fear when Dean casually locks his ankles behind him, effectively caging him within the confines of his master’s legs.

“Shh. Just want to take these off, and see what’s going on.” The words are low and soothing, and do little to make him relax. But the calloused hands are gentle, fitting the tiny key into the lock and unfastening it, tossing it carelessly to the side on the floor. The hiss of displeasure from his master is one he wants to mimic, seeing the mess that his wrists are. A small part is worried about his throat, but he’s too horrified by the abuse that had been hidden by the rough leather. He jumps when the bodyguard curses low and storms out, gaze flicking quickly to the intense green awaiting him.

“He’s just upset.”He nods jerkily, stomach still roiling, and he wants to moan in dismay when the other cuff slips off to reveal the same, the leather cuffs coarse enough to peel the fragile skin off the blisters. He doesn’t realize he’s hyperventilating until his vision starts to have the grey intrude on the edges, the sound of his master’s voice fade and become lost in the buzzing in his ears. Distantly, there’s a tight, clamping pressure on his forearms, and he panics, trying to break out of the almost-painful grip, before Dean’s harsh bark breaks through. His master’s hands are locked on his arms, thumbs brushing against the sensitive skin on the inside of his elbows, and a heavy calloused hand is on the back of his neck, enough pressure to convince him to stay put, hunched over and admiring the view of his feet curling into the stones.

“You okay now?” It’s Robert, behind him, and he nods, closing his eyes as he fights back the fear that wants to crash over him. His wrists… a mess of blisters and skin chaffed bloody and raw, and he knows, _knows_ that it’ll scar. The caravan had encountered a horse once like that, turned loose with a halter too tight and left on too long. Remembers the pain and agony rolling off the horse strong enough to trigger his gift, the anger and yelling about the abuse, and the single sharp sound of the gun before the pain had stopped flowing abruptly. His stomach churns, and he vaguely realizes Dean’s talking.

“Not so bad, really.” Dean turns his wrist over, thumb skirting the damage neatly as his eyes analyze and evaluate. “I’ve seen worse, and this was the course of a few days. It’ll heal up just fine, but I think we’ll leave the wrist cuffs loose until it’s healed, okay?” He wants to ask _why bother letting it heal first_ , but he knows better, just nods blindly, swallows hard. He closes his eyes tightly, as much to hold back the tears as block the sight of his master cleaning the mangled flesh, and jumps when the cold rag presses against him. It makes the pain flare white hot for a moment before the cold wet chases it away, and he slumps, tension bleeding out sharply. It gives him enough courage to open his eyes.

Dean’s gentle but through, not inflicting more pain than necessary; still, when he slathers on a golden salve that smells faintly of birch and sharply of beeswax, the numbing relief that sinks in is more than welcomed. He must make a noise, because Dean glances up, quirks a grin. “Yeah, Kaz likes this stuff too. Granted, he’s fond of nibbling on it, but I really don’t recommend it.” He keeps talking, low and steady, as he presses thick but soft cloths around his wrists, binding them in place with bright green wrap that sticks to itself with any pressure. “The salve helps draw out any infection; it looked good, but I know Blake, and I don’t want to risk anything festering in there. We’ll change them every morning and every evening, okay? Just like we did here. Nothing to get worked up over.” He brushes a finger over the coarse wrap, chuckling. “Sorry about the color. It was the only thing left, other than pink.” He brandishes a neon, fluorescent pink roll, and laughs outright at the answering blanch.

It’s hard, to keep from flinching as Dean unfastens the thick and rough leather from around his neck, and even harder to stay stock still as the man carefully and steadily scrubs the abrasions there. The salve goes on thinner than on his wrists, and there’s no binding, no wrapping, before Dean is crouching and tending to his ankles.

And that quickly, he realizes. It’s the first time in days that he’s been well and truly free. No collar, no cuffs, no locks. There’s not one item binding him against his will. The possibilities alight a firestorm of ideas in his head, but the glitter in Robert’s eyes says that his thoughts are pretty well known. Even if Dean is oblivious. And the bodyguard looks rather like a guard dog, ominously eager for the chase to start. He swallows hard, drops his gaze to where Dean is leaning back.

“There. Okay, strip, and into the shower. There’s a cloth in there to wash with, and soap on the wall.” His voice turns teasing, a grin teasing at his mouth as his eyes sparkle. “From the looks of it, you’ll want to scrub a few times. At least until the water runs clear.”

The insane urge to make a mad dash for the still-open door is a strong one; every cell of his being is wanting out, wanting back in the world where the grass is thick and green under his feet, not cold stone, and the sky is a never-ending blue, not the dismal wooden planking. But the logical part of his brain knows he’ll never get past his master and the guard, let alone actually find his way out of the stables and clear of them. So he ducks his head and steps into the sectioned off shower-area, nervously stripping off his dirty clothing and folding them on the wooden bench that’s against the wall. The slaver’s whispered words still circle in his brain, and he half expects Dean to follow. But there’s soap and hot water, and the first few seconds of hot water pounding against him is enough to drown out the malicious thoughts. He groans quietly at the pleasure before rousing himself enough to tip the amber crystalline shampoo into his hands, working the suds through his hair, teasing the knots out as gently but quickly as he can. The salve around his neck slowly soaps away as the shampoo is rinsed and reapplied, and the second rinse has the cleansers stinging sharply in the open abrasions. He decides to leave well-enough alone, and scours himself with the soap and cloth, dodging the worst of Blake’s abuse gingerly.

His fingers and toes are thoroughly pruned up by the time the water runs clear, and he feels more human and less animal when he reluctantly turns off the water, squeezing the excess moisture from the chestnut locks. A quiet scuffing noise from just past the canvas curtain startles him, before the master’s voice drifts over. “I put some towels out for you, and a change of clothes. Just wanted to let you know.”

He bites his lip… his Nana raised him with manners, even if being a slave means he needs none, and the impulse to reply wars for a moment with the fear of punishment if he’s wrong. But… Dean has yet to actually hurt him, so he clears his throat, closes his eyes, and hopes. “Thanks.”

The silence is startled, and he’s just about to start pleading when Dean’s voice drifts across again. “No problem. Get dried off and dressed, okay?”

He waits a few seconds before peering out, and sure enough, the master is gone. He brushes his fingers over the thick and fluffy towels, confused. He’s seen slaves as the caravans pass, and he knows they weren’t abused, but they weren’t treated nearly as nicely as he is. The thought turns around and around lazily as he dries off, squishing the material idly between his fingers.

Unless Blake’s implications of his purchase as a pleasure-slave were correct. In which case, this makes a good deal of sense.

Either way, there’s only one option. Play along, follow along until he has the opportunity to run. So he’ll wear the clothes, soft but sturdy, and do what he has to. Shame isn’t his friend, but neither is pride, not when his survival is on the line.

~~*^*~~

Dean checks the bandages again, humming pleasantly when he sees that they’re still intact and mostly dry, before reapplying the salve around his neck. Neither says a word as he gently binds it this time before latching a new leather collar in place.

“It’s loose, for now, like I said. To let it heal. If it starts chafing at all, let Stephan know. We’ll get it taken care of.” The cuffs go around his wrists, but not his ankles, and he starts to frown. And then his eyes catch on the material, and go wide, fingers hesitantly brushing against the leather. It’s thin and soft, giving easily under the gentle pressure, and it’s almost like suede against his skin. A bright gold thread dances merrily along the edges, twisting and weaving into random shapes around the bold copper ‘W’ that’s stitched into the center of the cuffs. “It’s deerskin, softer than leather, and more durable for this type of work.”

They’re so light, and almost decorative, that the thought rubs against him like an evil cat. _Surely these aren’t my real cuffs. Or collar. Unless Blake is right, and with his guard-dog over there, there’s not much need for a stronger set._

Dean clears his throat, and clasps his hands together with a sharp noise, pulling him away from his thoughts. “Right. So, now that you’ve had a little time to get acclimated and settled in and everything, I think you’re ready for the ground rules.” The pause drags on, until he realizes that his master has every intention of forcing him into some form of communication, however crude. _Never should have let on that I knew._ He nods, and Dean smirks quickly before catching Robert’s eyes. “That, is Robert. He is, as I’m sure you are well aware of, my guard. Don’t piss him off. Won’t be pretty. However, if you need something, and Stephan either can’t or won’t do it, go to Robert. He’ll help you out. If you can’t find either of us, go to the house, in the kitchens. Ask for Allie. She’ll help you.”

Dean pauses again, and he nods understandingly. When there’s still silence, he chances a glance up at Dean. “If there’s a problem, who do you go to?”

He points to Robert, then towards where he _thinks_ the house is. Dean shakes his head, smirking again. “Words dude. Words are your friends.”

“Stephan. Robert. Allie.” He whispers them, quietly and meekly, and Dean nods.

“Good. Rules are pretty simple. Stephan’s your immediate boss. He says to do something, do it, within reason. You don’t feel comfortable doing something, let him know. Anything Robert or I say to do trumps him. Beyond that… behave. Don’t cause injury to any of my property. Property is any other person, building, or animal.”

“Stay the hell away from Kaz. I know Stephan’s told you, but I’m sayin it again. Let me catch you near that horse, I’ll blister your hide. Got it?” Robert growls it, arms crossed over his chest menacingly, and Dean sighs, shaking his head.

“Bobby.” When the bodyguard shifts his gaze from slave to master, he grins. “Quit scaring the boy.”

“Just makin it clear boss.”

“Mmm.” Dean turned back to him, leaned his weight forward, forearms braced against his knees, hands hanging loosely between. “He’s got a point though. Stay away from Kaz. He’s a stallion, so he’s not necessarily friendly anyway.”

He thinks of the beating the doors have taken from Satan’s steed, and barely refrains from snorting. _That_ is obvious.

“Alright. There’s a set of pre-defined punishments for breaking rules. I don’t deviate from them, within reason. Mostly, the number of punishments increase for the severity of the infraction. I’m fair, I like to think, and I’ll always explain what your punishment is for the situation before I impose it. Got it?” He nods, and Dean smiles, dusts his hands off, and pushes himself upright. “Okay then. For now, I’m going to let you head back, chill for the rest of the day, just relax. Tomorrow I’ll have Stephan find something for you to do, start earning your keep.” He grins and winks, and the sudden knot of worry loosens a bit, knowing he’s allowed to go back to where he’s been safe the last few days.

He silently guesses where he’s going as Dean leads the way back, and is rather pleased when he figures each turn out correctly. It’s not much, but he knows more of his prison then he did yesterday, and if he’s going to escape, that’s an important thing to have a grasp on. He still doesn’t see anyone on the walk of shame back, and hears a whicker of curiosity out of only one stall. It doesn’t take long before he’s back in his stall, and he holds his wrists out and chin up to make it easier for his master to secure him again. _Play along, lower their defenses…_

Dean looks surprised, and only clips the chains to one wrist, locking it deftly before unlocking and removing three of the four remainders, that lay like limp snakes on the straw. “Since you’re cooperating, you get rewarded.” He grins a quicksilver smirk, and motions to the basket with the fist full of metal. “Go ahead and try to eat. I’ll be bringing supper by later again tonight.”

He nods, and Dean mimics the motion, looking uneasy for a moment before he puts his shoulders back. “Depending on how you do the remainder of the week, we’ll see about getting you out of here, okay?” He doesn’t wait for answer, just turns and slides the heavy door shut, and the slave sits down, easing onto the sweetly scented bedding and letting the tension ease away. Even if it doesn’t help the headache brewing, as his treacherous mind whispers a question that’s been burning white-hot since Blake sold him off to Dean.

_Just what the hell do I do when I get loose?_

~~*^*~~

Sure enough, a few hours later, he sees the ears and the fanciful prancing of Kaz as he’s led back into his stall, and the routine of quiet noises and soft murmurs that drift over the wall. He’s not exactly sure what happens over there, but Dean always spends a fair bit of time, and the words are always hushed and husky, and never really loud enough for him to make out. Dean will then stop in, check on the slave, and head out, and be back within an hour, with a new plate for him, and some rewards for the stallion, and then it’ll be quiet for the night, until the steed starts beating on the walls in the morning.

So he’s settling in for the night, stomach full and warm, eyes tired and drooping, when the main barn door opens with a loud clatter. The noise startles him, and he hears Kaz snort in alarm, but he doesn’t even have his feet under him before his own door is opening, and the portal reveals Dean, eyes hard and pissed and cold as a December sky, and for the first time, true fear lances through him.

He’s still scrambling to his feet when Dean stalks forward, grabs his shirt, and yanks it down in the front in a fluid motion, exposing the still-red and tender brand just under his collarbone. The growl that rumbles free of the man is intimidating and frightening, but before he can even exhale, Dean’s shoving a paper in front of him. “Is this your mother’s signature?” The scrawl at the bottom is almost illegible, and certainly not the elegant script of his Nana, so he shakes his head, eyes wide. “Do you recognize the signature at all?” He shakes his head again, trembling at the snarl in the man’s voice. Almost instantly, Dean’s gone, hands curled into tight fists as he punches the doorway on his way out. “ _Damnit.”_

He can hear the alarm in the snorts and stamps coming from Kaz’s stall, and the door to his own is still open, enough that he can see as Robert comes storming in, hands braced on either side of the walkway. “Dean, calm down. You’re not doing anything foolish, so just get off Kaz, and we’ll talk.”

“Bobby, get out of the way.”

“No.”

“Now.” He shrinks back at the low snarl, but Robert just sets his jaw and narrows his eyes.

“Get down boy.”

He doesn’t see it, but the noise indicates a large horse spinning, and then the heavy and rushed staccato of hoof beats as they gallop away, and he figures that they’ve gone off in another direction. Robert scrubs a hand over his face, weary-looking as he sighs, before he catches a glimpse of the open door. “It’s alright kid. He’s just… upset. He’ll be back later.” He dips his chin quickly, adrenaline still rushing through him, and the body guard frowns. “He didn’t hurt ya, did he?” A shake of the head, and the man sighs again. “Alright. Get some sleep. It’ll be better in the morning, yeah?”

Oh gods, how he hopes so.

~~*^*~~  



	4. Collared, Chapter 4

  


He’d known Blake was a bad dealer. He’d _known_. But seeing this irrefutable proof was just something else.

He was proud of the new slave. He’d been amazingly gun-shy, flinching and cringing like he was expecting Dean to suddenly let loose on him. He’d bought plenty of slaves over the last few years, enough to know not to take it personally when they were scared and fearful. But this new one… Dean shook his head. He wasn’t like any of the others that had paraded their way through. There’d been a moment earlier in the day, when the pulse under his hand had beat hard enough and fast enough to make him abruptly worry about the kid stroking out right then and there, when he’d really wondered if he was making a good decision in this case. Maybe he shouldn’t have taken on this challenge.

He was going to offer to take the kid back to Blake’s; had already talked it over with Bobby, figured it was the best idea. The kid was terrified of him, and the only words he’d gotten out of him were monosyllabic and all but forced out of him.

But the whisper-quiet and raspy ‘thanks’ that had drifted out of the shower stall, and the gratitude in the kid’s eyes when he slunk back out changed his mind. He hadn’t backed down from a challenge yet. Hell, he’d even gotten Kaz, when everyone said the odds were nigh impossible. It’d just take patience and a steady hand, and he paused to remind himself firmly every time he approached the slave that he had to be quiet, steady and reassuring. Just like the flighty rescues his dad took in. Slow and steady, and they’d realize he wasn’t a threat.

Same idea.

‘ _Good idea there Dean. Too bad you fucked it all up real quick,’_ he thinks, growling low again. Kaz snorts sleepily, an eye cracking open enough to watch him for a moment before drifting shut again, pressing hard against the brush. He takes a deep breath, letting the scent of hay and horses soothe him again.

He hadn’t meant to lose his temper. The night had been going so well; the slave had not only been bathed and cleaned, but had actually _eaten_ something. The walk back to the house had been quiet, with the curve of the moon silvery and the stars a beautiful accent, and the rustle of the dying leaves as the wind edged through them. It had started so well, until he’s finished dinner and had started sorting through the mail that had arrived throughout the day.

Until he had seen _Sam’s_ linage outline. It had been buried under the medical documents (blank as they were), and his bill-of-sale. He’d flipped through until he’d seen the pedigree, and had blinked in surprise at the lack of writing. It listed Sam, and that was it. No mother or father, and the signature on the agreement of slavery was a female name, but a decidedly male signature. Dean had flipped through the pages again; sure he’d missed something, until the surprise turned into anger, and he’d carefully set the papers down when his temples had started throbbing painfully.

He breathed deeply, reminding himself firmly that he may be wrong. It had happened before. But the red mist was edging into his vision as he grabbed the agreement of slavery and made his way to the stables. The short walk did nothing to calm him, and half of him was frantically trying to repair the rapidly fraying leash on his temper.

The other half wanted to beat Blake into a quivering puddle of bones and organs.

His hands were shaking in barely restrained violence when he yanked open the stable doors, and he heard Bobby’s bellow of his name across the lawn. But he’d already yanked down Sam’s shirt, his vision wavering for a moment before it focused on the new, still-red brand that screamed confirmation of his accusations.

Sam hadn’t been a slave long at all. But still…

“Is this your mother’s signature?” Sam had shaken his head, eyes wide as he trembled, and the red throbbed angrily, covering his sight for moment. “Do you recognize the signature at all?” When Sam shook his head again, the need to get _out_ before he did something he’d regret, before he hurt someone, surged strong and powerful, and he yanked open Kaz’s door. The dark horse was already on his feet, stamping dinner-plate sized hooves in agitation at the anger rolling off Dean, but stood firm and steady as he grabbed fistfuls of coarse mane and vaulted up. Kaz snorted, shaking his head and reminding Dean to loosen the tight grip, and eagerly left his stall, trying to dodge around Bobby.

Bobby tried to get him down, but the rage and potent anger wasn’t much of a match, and Kaz responded swiftly and easily to the light request, spinning elegantly and galloping down the back corridors. The stallion didn’t need much direction, knew the way as surely as his owner, and slowed just enough to make it a question when they hit the asphalt of the road. Dean pressed with his knee, indicating the direction, and leaned down low over Kaz’s shoulders as the horse broke into a ground-eating gallop again.

He knew it’s highly dangerous, riding a black horse in the dead of night without so much as a bridle on him, but he trusts Kaz more than he trusts himself, and let the surging power of the horse under him and the biting cold rush of wind knock him out of his rage and into a more calm mindset. Kaz knew what path they usually take when they go this way; knows the turns and signmarks that lead to his secondary home, and didn’t ask for more input than that, content to let his master defuse quietly.

Dean startles back into the here and now when Kaz slows into a canter, sides heaving as he silently asks if they can walk, or if the need to rush is still on them. Dean sits up a bit more and rubs gently at the thick neck. “Sorry baby.” Kaz tosses his head for a moment before slipping into a steady and easy trot.

He isn’t really surprised when they round the final bend as Kaz steps down into a walk, and the lights in the foyer and kitchen are still on. He can see the silhouette of his dad as the man watches out the windows, and he raises a hand in greeting, but passes straight through to the barn. Kaz stops outside the double doors, ears pricked and head high, and Dean slips off, catching the silver halter and leading the horse forward into the dimly lit stable. The big box stall at the end is Kaz’s; always has been, from the first time Dean mentioned his ‘insane’ plan. John had the stall cleared out, even as he had argued steadily against the idea, and Dean leads Kaz into it, clapping a hand to the pretty arch of the neck. “Stay.”

He slips out for a moment to the tack room, grabbing a few things before ducking back into the stall. Kaz isn’t a dog, but listens about as well, and Dean wonders, not for the first time, if it’s his breed or the hand-rearing that makes him so obedient. He loses himself in the steady, solid strokes, currying and brushing and wiping. It’s a blissful routine that’s almost meditative; his body knows the routine, and Kaz leans into the pressure with quiet groans, head dropping low as his brown eyes slide closed.

By the time the black coat gleams again in the meager light, Kaz is swaying on his feet, and Dean is calmed, if not relaxed again. He takes a moment to scratch right under the forelock before he puts a flake of hay in the stall and latches the door. They’re not home, so the stallion should be quiet and steady until Dean actually comes down in the morning. He slides the main doors shut, and smiles a little when he turns and sees the back door open, his dad leaning in the doorway.

John doesn’t say much until Dean kicks off his boots by the door, and makes his way upstairs to John’s den. It’s the one place the staff isn’t allowed into, and the one place where Dean can kick and yell and scream and rant and rave, and nothing will be said about it.

Granted, he hasn’t had a temper tantrum like that in _years_ , but tonight has had a lot of stress.

John hands him a mug of tea that smells strongly of liquor, and settles behind the massive ebony desk. He’s patient; knows Dean will eventually spill, so the younger man takes a moment to childishly amuse himself by burying his toes in the plush black carpet. After awhile though, the quiet takes an uneasy feel to it, and Dean sighs, dragging his gaze unwillingly back up.

“Um…mind if I crash here tonight?”

John snorts, shaking his head. “Typically, one asks _before_ they burst through the door, but you know that’s fine. Mind explaining why Bobby called me in a panic?”

Dean’s jaw tightens against his will, and he fishes out the crumpled agreement of slavery, and tosses it on the desk. “He didn’t sign that. And he says it’s not his mama’s signature either.” The ire that he thought was beaten back was rising up again, and he slumps in the seat, glaring mulishly at the paper.

“Damnit Dean, we’ve been over this.” The tone is weary, resigned despite the harsh words, and John rubs a hand over his eyes tiredly. “This happens. I warned you when you decided you wanted to do this. I told you that it’s not always legit. Sometimes…sometimes bad things happen. You said you understood that.”

“And I do Dad. But…” He groans, leaning forward agitatedly and resting his elbows on his knees. “Dad, you haven’t seen this kid. I swear, he looks like he’s maybe 15, and scared to hell and back of anyone or anything that moves too fast. He didn’t agree to this, didn’t agree to be shoved in a cage and bound up so bad that he has welts everywhere.”

“Then file a complaint with the Servitude Board.” The tone is too even, too patient, and Dean looks up, studies the steady gaze that’s watching him.

“That’s not gonna change this thing with Sam.”

“No. But…Dean, I do this to make things right for what few slaves I can. I don’t agree with how most are treated. You know that. But…part of the problem is slavers like this one. He more than likely kidnapped the kid, and forged the documents. Because he knew he had a buyer, knew he could get away with it. He thinks you won’t say anything. You got one of two choices, son. You can report him to the Board, get his vending license revoked and get him black-listed; let him know it won’t be tolerated, and let other buyers know his slaves aren’t always on the up-and-up. Or you can ignore it, and he’ll do it again and again. Sam’ll just be the first in a long string.

As for your boy, well… you can either treat him like any other slave, and let him go when he’s rehabilitated, or keep him if that’s your prerogative. Or you can try to find his family, and turn him back over to them. That’s a matter between the two of you. Just remember, if you turn in this guy, the Board may want to talk to the kid.”

Dean knows all this, logically. His dad is right; they’ve been over all this a million times before, when Dean was deciding if he wanted to follow his father’s footsteps, or the path worn by a legacy of older Winchesters.

“It’s just not right.” And yes, he’s aware he sounds like a whiney toddler, thank you very much.

His dad just laughs. “Yeah, it’s wrong. I’m just surprised you managed to get this far without it cropping up sooner. Especially given how you decide to ply the slavers, and your reputation in the slaving industry.” Dean can feel the heat in his face; it’s mortifying that his father is aware of what the slave vendors believe Dean buys slaves for. “Either way, sleep on it, and go home in the morning.”

Dean scrubs a hand over his face, rubbing at the tension knitting his brows together. John pushes himself up with a quiet groan, and squeezes Dean’s shoulder reassuringly as he passes. “I have faith in you kiddo. You’re a good man, and I’m proud of you. You’ll do the right thing.”

With that, he leaves Dean to sit quietly in the den, staring at his toes as they wiggle into the carpet, trying to disappear.

~~*^*~~

He wakes the next morning to three tongues trying to burrow themselves between his toes, and he snorts abruptly as he yanks his feet back under the covers. He hears John laugh in the doorway, a familiar rumble, before the sharp whistle to call away his demon-dogs, and they obey quickly and easily, tags jangling in the early morning. Dean props himself up on an elbow, glaring over his shoulder as he tries to blink himself awake, toes still tightly curled under the sheets. “The fuck?”

“Up and at ‘em. Coffee and breakfast is downstairs…you’ve got enough time for a shower if you’re so inclined.” Dean just blinks at him again before dropping his head a little and rubbing hard at his eyes. It’s too early still. “Come on Dean. Up. Got work for you to do today.”

“Thought you were sending me home.”

John laughs, the familiar sound underlain by the jingle of one of the dogs as they scratch at their collar. “Boy, you showed up unannounced and unexpected. You’re gonna get worked today.” He thumps a foot through the blankets before turning to leave. “Got some new stock in, and I want your take on them.”

“Kaz?”

“Alona already fed him and he’s out in the pastures. You’ve got ten minutes until I send the hounds back up.”

~~*^*~~

His dad is true to his word; Dean gets out of the shower to see his dad’s bitch laying on the bed, tongue lolling as she watches Dean intently. “Yeah, I see you.” The hound blinks at him before laying her head on her paws, gaze focused as she watches him drag on the clothes that the housekeeper kidnapped and cleaned during the night. The greyhound slinks off the bed gracefully, leading him downstairs after he stomps into his boots, and he grins as she curves around John’s leg, resting her chin on his hip until his dad leans down and scratches behind her ear absently.

He gratefully takes a cup of the coffee but doesn’t sit, making his way instead to the back door and opening it, stepping out into the early morning fog as he searches out Kaz. The stallion is startlingly noticeable in the mist, the curve of his ears just visible as he whickers low and quiet before dropping his head to the grass again. Dean feels tension he didn’t know he had fall away, shoulders relaxing as he watches his pride and joy graze for a few more minutes. Content that the horse is safe and well-tended, he turns back inside, sitting heavily at the breakfast table and yawning hard.

~~*^*~~

Dean winds up spending the night again. He feels a flicker of guilt when he thinks of Sam, but the staff are fully self-sufficient, and he needs the slight escape his father’s house offers. A chance to just admire the new stock, carefully tracing lineage lines and pedigrees, and the lazy afternoon he spent washing every last inch of Kaz. Granted, the brute had rolled all over the paddock the instant Dean’s hand had let go, but for a few brief moments, he had gleamed like obsidian, white mark shining brightly. Dean winces as he remembers when he had last seen it a few hours ago; the mark was a vivid green, contrasting horribly with the dusty coat.

“Going back today?” John’s drawl startles Dean awake, and he nods a little, pushing the piece of cantaloupe around his plate. “Got an idea what you’re doing with Sam yet?”

Dean gives up on his breakfast, leans back and nurses his coffee a little longer. “Figure I’ll put him to work on the repairs, see how he does around the horses. May put him to work up at the house if he doesn’t work out in the barn.”

John nods, a grin tugging at his mouth. “So, you’re keeping him.” He raises his hands innocently at Dean’s glare. “Hey, just asking.”

Dean slouches a little, rubbing a hand tiredly across his eyes. “It’s not his fault, but there’s not much other option. I may see if Collin wants him, if he doesn’t work out with me, but yeah. I’ll stop by the Servitude Board after I get home, gather up the rest of the paperwork.” He laughs mirthlessly, and shakes his head. “This is going to be a pain in the ass, isn’t it?”

“You know it.”

~~*^*~~

He takes his time going home, taking Kaz along back trails and meandering slowly, admiring the display Mother Nature has put on as she gets ready to welcome winter. He’s not delaying going home….not at all. He’s just…admiring. Because as soon as Kaz’s hooves hit the gravel path leading to the barn, Robert is standing in the open massive double doors, hands planted firmly on his hips as he glares at his ‘master’. Dean tries to look chagrined, but doubts he pulls it off very well. He reluctantly slides down, catching the halter as Kaz starts edging so nonchalantly towards the apple orchard.

His Kaz is a glutton.

“I have half a mind to beat your ass, boy,” Robert growls as he leads Kaz back in, turning to follow. The slave’s stall door is open, and the chains lay like slain snakes on the hay, glinting and malicious in their silent incrimination.

“Where’s Sam?” Kaz snorts, alarmed at the hardness in Dean’s voice, and Robert’s eyes widen a little.

“If you’d been home, you would have known. But I put him a little further down, checking the tack for repairs. Gives him something to do. He’s been scared out of his mind that he did something to piss you off.”

The relief that rushes through him, knowing Sam’s safe and okay, is a bit startling, but not something he’s willing to look at too closely right now. Dean nods, giving the stallion a very quick brush-down, more formality than actual brushing, and doesn’t say anything.

The silent aura of disapproval fades when Dean heads back to his office, picking up all the papers he has on Sam, and Robert nods when Dean asks if he’ll provide his witness, if needed. Dean wants to check on Sam, explain that he’s not mad, not at the slave, but that will have to come later.

He’s got a lot of work to do.  
  


~~*^*~~


	5. Collared, Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   _I do hope you all trust me. However.... there are things in this chapter that be TRIGGER some people (yes, I'm capping things so people that skim may see this. It's important.). It will spoil the chapter, but if you cannot trust me here, then you can hover your mouse[HERE](http://silverblaze85.livejournal.com/52961.html) and see what the potential trigger is. I hope you won't though, for the surprise. _

  


_Sorry this took so long. >.< I have excuses a mile long, but we all know you're not here for that! :P This chapter is a little short, but there's a reason for it. I really had to end it where I did, and you'll see why. _  
  
PLEASE NOTE:  _I do hope you all trust me. However.... there are things in this chapter that be TRIGGER some people (yes, I'm capping things so people that skim may see this. It's important.). It will spoil the chapter, but if you cannot trust me here, then you can hover your mouse[HERE](http://silverblaze85.livejournal.com/52961.html) and see what the potential trigger is. I hope you won't though, for the surprise. _  
  
_Anyway, onward! *g*_

~~*^*~~

Dean strolls into his stall on the third morning, like nothing had changed at all. Like he hadn’t taken off like a man possessed, or disappeared without warning. Just does his usual morning routine with Kaz, and then drops off breakfast in his prison, nonchalant as ever. Sam briefly entertains the idea of saying screw it, refusing the food just to piss off the owner, but he knows better, and besides, his belly has gotten used to the regular meals of really good food.

It isn’t much longer before the horses are led out to wherever they go during the day, and Kaz is taken with them today, before his own door opens. Dean’s got his leash in hand, but doesn’t say a word as he leads him to the wash room again, the quiet uneasy enough to make his skin crawl. Sam’s fairly sure he hasn’t done anything wrong, but the silence holds a sense of foreboding, and the bodyguard is frowning as he leans against the wall.

When Dean murmurs “These look really good”, the words startle him badly enough he flinches, whole body tensing. His owner grips him by the arms again, muttering soothing ‘sorry, sorry’ again and again, until his heart rate drops back down to a reasonable level. Dean smirks at him, a wry twist of the mouth, and the green eyes glint. “Didn’t think you’d startle like a colt there, Sammy.”

“It’s Sam.” He doesn’t like the nickname he vaguely recalls his mother whispering against baby-skin and toddler-hair. He’s not been called ‘Sammy’ since his mother left, and the use of the nickname lances longing and irritation through him in equal measures.

Dean ducks his head in acquiesce, examining the fading injuries to the wrists. “Fair deal. Still, these look good. You took good care of ‘em.” Sam shakes his head a little, aware he did nothing other than stand there as Robert had cleaned them. A little rougher and brisker than Dean had, but still, he’s not going to take credit for something he didn’t do. He waits as Dean bandages them back up, before his collar and wrist cuffs are undone and laid aside, and he’s led to the showering area again.

He barely holds back the hot tears of frustration and anger that threaten, breath shaking as he scrubs himself. He’s confused, and bewildered, and nothing has made sense for the last few weeks, and he’s just _tired of it._ He hasn’t seen the sun in several weeks, and considering he’s seen it every day of his life, stood under and let it warm him every day… he feels like he’s suffocating. Just as quickly though, the anger fades away, leaving him frustrated and tired, so very tired. He dries off, and lets Robert lead him to the newest stall, where he’s allowed to work on inspecting the mountain of tack that’s piled up.

Dean, of course, is gone again.

“You okay, kid?” It’s a moment before Sam realizes that the bodyguard is talking to _him,_ and he nods warily, folding down onto the warm straw gracefully. The burly man watches him for a few minutes before he nods to himself, turning away and closing the door. The latch slides a minute later, and Sam feels the tension that’s been turning his shoulders rigid seep away.

This, he understands. The quiet, faint whicker of horses, the warm scent of horseflesh and hay, straw and muck, and the simple task of looking for repairs, he gets. He finds his sticks of chalk, and picks up the first bridle, and starts examining every inch of the leather.

~~*^*~~

Dean’s on the phone when Bobby bursts in the door, face dark and scowling. The master glares, a dark look that has the bodyguard lean against the wall, arms crossing stubbornly across his chest as he waits. He can be patient when he has to be, even if he doesn’t like it.

It’s not much longer until Dean hangs up, gusting out a sigh as he rubs his eyes wearily. “What now, Bobby?”

“You’ve got that kid terrified again.” Ten minutes earlier, he would have been bellowing it, but his young master is tired like he rarely shows, and it tempers the anger, softening his voice. He tends to forget that this is just as stressful on Dean as it is on any slave, and he makes a mental note to try to remember that in the coming days. The stubborn look on Sam’s face made it clear that they would eventually come to a clash.

The kid’s like an unruly colt, ready to buck and snort at the first challenge. And what’s worse, he’s not quite sure _which_ ‘kid’ he’s talking about.

“I know.” Dean’s voice startles him out of his musing, and he straightens. “Not much I can do about that right now though.” He leans back over his fists, grunting when his back pops loudly, and sighs. “All I can do, is get him into a routine, and try to keep him safe until he calms down. And then figure out where I’m putting him.”

“Mmm.” Bobby rocks on his heels a few times, grins when Dean cants a glance at him. “All I’m saying, is the kid is getting spooked. You need to do something with him soon. I’ve got a bad feeling about you keeping him idle much longer.” He pauses, waits until Dean’s really looking at him, and raises a brow. “Do what you have to. But, remember that, okay?” His young master is still a novice at this game, and Bobby knows that the warning will be taken like he intends. As advice, not chastise.

“Alright.” The kid stands up, scrubbing his hands on his jeans for a moment. “Alright then. Did we rotate the pastures while I was gone, or did you wait?” Bobby shakes his head, and Dean nods. “Good. Let’s get the fillies up to the front pasture,” he closes his eyes, calculating. “Pasture D. We’ll worm and vaccinate them, and see how much time we’ve got left. May move a few of the geldings today too, yeah?”

As far as evading goes, it sucks, but he nods and pushes off the wall. “Want me to ring the farrier?”

Dean shakes his head. “Nah. I’ll give her a full day’s work when we get everything settled. I might see if Sam can help us out with that, give him something to do, and a chance to see how he’s doing.” He sighs, cracking his neck. “Alright, let’s go.”

~~*^*~~

Sam had just tugged the heavy saddle into his lap when the door opens, and Dean slinks in, easing the door shut behind him. The master sinks into the hay, stretching his legs out with a sigh as he grins at the slave. “So, having fun yet?”

Sam doesn’t answer, just watches warily, and Dean shrugs carelessly, picking up a short leather shank and turning it over in his hands as he watches Sam. “Alright, so… got some serious things I need to talk to you about, okay?” Sam glances up through his bangs, and yeah, Dean’s face is serious, all joking and lightness absent, so he frowns, setting the chalk down reluctantly. This isn’t how he wanted to spend his day.

Dean sighs again, tipping his head back until it thunks against the wooden wall. “The basics, cut and dry? I think you were illegally taken.” Sam can’t hold back the snort at that, and Dean looks at him, brow raises. “Comment?”

Sam shakes his head. He’s not dumb enough to get himself into any more trouble, thank you very much.

Dean smirks for a moment, before letting it fade and drops his eyes back to the shank in his hands. “Anyway, I think your papers were forged. There’s a lot of evidence supporting that, all things considered. I’ve filed a complaint with the Servitude Board, and they’re going to be coming out and asking some questions.” Dean swallows, and looks to Sam. “They’re going to want to talk to you, Sam. About everything.”

A chill races down Sam’s spine. He really, really doesn’t like that idea. At all. But Dean just looks back to the leather in his hands before he tosses it back into the pile. “Anyway, I just wanted to let you know what was going on, and apologize for the other day. I got a little upset about the whole thing.” He stands up, dusting the seat of his pants, before he makes his way out of the room. There’s a pause for a few seconds, and then he hears the steps he’s starting to recognize as Stephan’s.

“Stephan, I was about to come looking for you. Can you set down some rat poison in the stalls beside Kaz’s? I thought I heard some rats in there this morning,” Dean says, voice full of concern.

Stephan hums before answering. “Yeah, I can do that. Both stalls, or just the empty on the left?”

“Both.”

“Will do. I’ll get that laid down in just a bit. Hey, I’ve got the inventory list for the vaccines this time. I think we may be a bit short.” Their voices fade as they walk away, but that’s okay with Sam. Because an unexpected boon just fell into his lap, and suddenly, he can’t wait to get back to his stall tonight.

~~*^~~

Sure enough, when Dean leads him back to his prison after the nightly cleaning, there’s a small cardboard box tucked into the far corner, full of glittering green crystals. Sam’s careful to not look at it; just goes right to his usual spot and lifts his chin, to let his master chain him as usual. Only Dean doesn’t, just watches him for a long moment before he drops the chain. “You’ve done really well lately, Sam. I think that deserves a reward,” he explains as he ducks out of the stall.

Guilt coils uneasily in his belly, warring with the anxiety and dismay that’s already churning his stomach into an aching mess. But he has no doubt that anything he tells these officials will get back to Dean, or possibly Blake, and he’ll be in nine kinds of trouble. This is just another trap, and his head is starting to hurt, trying to anticipate where the setups are, what the ploys will look like, and trying to figure out what’s truth and what’s deception. He’s not stupid, by any means, and he’s fully cognizant that he’ll never get out. He’ll be a slave for life, and if by some earth-shattering miracle he got free, his family would never take him back. He’s contaminated now, too stained to ever come clean, and he knows it.

He’s tired, bone-deep and soul weary, his Nana would say, and the little box promises a little reprieve. He just has to time it right, wait for the right moment, and he’ll be free in a whole other way.

If he had to guess, he’d say it’s about an hour later that Dean opens his door, basket of fragrant food in tow. “Hey, look at you, being good and behaved!” his master teases. Sam ducks his head, afraid the man will be able to read his intentions in his eyes, and startles when a cupcake, thick with icing and coated in little sprinkles, is pushed into his view. “A reward, as promised. I’ll even let you have it before the meal, if you don’t tell Allie, okay?”

He chances a glance up, smiling a little. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. Now, I’m off to give Kaz his treat, and then all quiet for the night,” Dean chatters as he slips out the door again. A moment later he hears the soft baby talk drift over the wall, the quiet pauses of talk filled in with snorts and nickers. He waits until Dean leaves fully, the lights dimmed down and door latched, before he gives in to his temptation that’s sitting in the corner of his jail so innocently. He settles the cupcake on the basket, and listens carefully, making sure there’s no one around. Stephan especially is quick and quiet, and he has every intention of making his escape peacefully tonight.

Sam’s surprised to see his hands shaking when he picks up the box, trepidation curling his guts around. Part of him wants to argue against this, but the majority knows it’s really the best bet. Dean hasn’t made a move yet, which means whatever torture he has planned is going to be _bad_ , and the thought of actually talking to anyone about this burns mortification through him, hot and burning.

And it’s not like he has anywhere else to go anymore, anyway.

He steels himself, and downs a mouthful before he loses his nerve again. The sweetness floods across his tongue in a surprise, and he’s just rationalizing it as ‘Well, rats do enjoy sweet things,’ when they pop and explode in his mouth. He startles, not sure what to do anymore, and opens his mouth, torn between swallowing and spitting. The crackles are louder, and Kaz grunts from his pen, before doing a neigh that rivals his morning screams when Dean is late. The pounding of hooves on the stall wall isn’t far behind, and the horse keeps up the noise, excited snorts and blows that rile up the other horses, until the whole barn is alight with noise.

Sam doesn’t hear his stall door open, but Stephan is standing there, framed in the open doorway, shock and dismay on his face. “Oh, Dean isn’t going to be happy about this...”  


~~*^*~~


	6. Collared, Chapter 6

_Massive, huge thanks go out to[](http://insertcode11.livejournal.com/profile)[ **insertcode11**](http://insertcode11.livejournal.com/)_ _for her totally awesome and super-rapid beta on this. She did a stunning, stunning job, and seriously folks, made it WAY better than it was. >.<  Next chapter will likely be a bit longer in coming. I like to try to keep updates on the same general day, so it'll likely be the middle of September. Also, September has Rodeo Weekend, so there's 4 days where using the laptop will be an utter joke. Sorry guys. Anyway, you don't really care... on to the fic!! ^_^_

~~*^*~~

  


~~*^*~~

To say that Dean looks pissed is an understatement.

It didn’t take him long to arrive from the house, and Sam’s stomach is already roiling in a way that has nothing to do with what he ingested minutes ago.  Dean slips quietly around Stephan, and leans in the open doorway, arms crossed across his chest. Shame and guilt had make it too hard for Sam to meet his master’s eyes, and he openly flinches when Dean growls out, “Oh no, Stephan, better call the doctor. The slave just ate _candy.”_

_That_ has his gaze flickering up. Dean’s eyes are cold as the snow, hard and brittle on Sam’s skin. “Yeah, you fucked up big time, kid. That rat poison- is a test for new slaves. Few are dumb enough to actually try it.” His master is all but quivering in his anger, and Sam winces when Dean huffs out an annoyed breath.

He about falls on his ass when Dean stalks forward with the quick predatory movements of a big cat, and grabs his collar, clipping his shank to it and yanking him forward. Stephan tugs his wrists around behind him, and he hears the quick ‘ _snickt’_ of another clip closing on his arms. When Sam tries bringing them back around, he feels the tension binding them. Oh god, he’s in trouble.

Dean mutters things under his breath, entirely too low for Sam to make out as he tugs and yanks and jerks Sam across the dew-damp grass and sharp gravel. Part of him wants to bite and scrabble and yowl like one of the stray cats the kids used to try to grab and bring home, but even he knows that’s a really, really bad idea. Especially when his master goes quiet and a muscle in his jaw starts jumping. So he stays meek and quiet, stumbling along behind as the master’s house starts looming up from the darkness.

It’s not a mansion, which he almost expected given the size and quality of the stables. The path slowly changes to sand, disappearing under tile as they get closer. Dean yanks open the door just as Sam notices the oddity of the metal sheet half-way up the wood, and storms through the dim and quiet kitchen. The room seems odd, like it’s holding its breath, and his master’s bootfalls echo harshly off the stainless steel appliances and sleekly polished wooden floor. Sam gets a brief glance of a startled woman before Dean’s tugging him along, causing him to stumble when the flooring changes to thick, plush carpeting under his feet. He’s too focused on regaining his feet to take stock of his surroundings, until Dean stops and points to the floor beside an old, massive wingback chair. The thing is so dominating, so overt, it’s obviously from before the Restart, and it takes a minute for the surprise to fade enough to realize Dean is growling low. He drops instantly, knees sinking into the dark, sumptuous fibers, and he doesn’t realize he’s shaking until Dean sighs heavily. “I’m not going to hurt you, kid. You’ll get your punishment tomorrow.”

Sam’s confusion must show, because Dean settles into the chair, tugging tug his laces loose as he elaborates. “You’re not an animal, you’re human, and you can rationalize your punishment tomorrow. I’m too pissed to do it right now. Tomorrow, I’ll have had overnight to calm down. Just… stay there and be quiet for now.” He takes off his boots, setting them partly under the chair, and undoes Sam’s lead enough to drape it over the arm of the chair and into his lap, before picking up a book that’s dog-eared and tattered.

Apparently, Dean has decided to ignore Sam. He waits, but Dean doesn’t give any indication that he even knows Sam is there, so he sneaks glances around the room, confused by the clash of simplicity and extravagance. The carpeting is black and fluffy, if coarse, but the walls are a creamy sand color. Combined with the dark wood pieces and trims, it’s oddly warm and inviting, with a vague underlying threat, somehow. Dean’s massive chair sat at an angle, back towards the only corner that was enclosed by heavy burgundy drapes that hang from the ceiling to brush against the carpeting. The curtains run along the entire wall directly to Dean’s left, before the curtains give way to the creamy paint of the next wall. There’s a stone fireplace, unlit but immaculately clean, under a massively framed picture of horses in a field. Dark wooden bookcases flank the fireplace, turning that wall into the main focal point of the room.  

A low glass coffee table sits between Sam and the overly stuffed couch, which sits just far enough away from the wall to form a neat walkway, connecting the two doorways that he can see. He knows the kitchens lay through the right doorway, and he has a vague sense of unease that he’ll learn what lays down the left by the end of the night.

He’s startled from his musings when the woman from before slips through the dark portal, watching him warily as she steps closer to the Master. When Dean tips his book down to glance up at her, she smiles, propping an elbow on the wing of his chair. “Everything’s cleaned up and ready to go. You need anything else, Dean?”

“No, I’m alright. Thanks Allie. You going to bed?”

“Yup,” she nods, casting a glance to Sam and tipping her head, blond curls tumbling over a slender shoulder. “Fell for it, huh?”

Dean’s glare at him is still icy cold, and he curls further away, wincing. “Yeah. Needless to say, you may have some help tomorrow while I’m working Kaz.” She nods again, and then pats Dean’s shoulder as she stands up. “Sleep well.”

“You too. Try and actually get some sleep tonight?” She laughs as she makes her way through the door again, and Dean just shakes his head as he grins, turning back to his book. It’s like Sam’s not even there, and he slumps a little, oddly lonely despite having another human close by.

~~*^*~~

  
It’s a few hours later, according to the deep tones that resonate from further down the hall, when Dean finally folds the corner of his book down before closing it and setting it on the floor beside his boots. He leans forward, rolling his neck on his shoulders, before grabbing the leash and watching at Sam struggles to his feet. It’s awkward, arms bound up behind him and feet gone numb from the pressure, but he manages, and stumbles after Dean as the Master leads him down the hallway, passing closed doors and dark turn-off hallways, until they climb the few twisting stairs at the end of the hall. They come before a solitary door, and when Dean pushes it open, the sight of the single, massive bed is a little too much for Sam to handle. Blake was right, this is going to end hellishly, and the despair from before is banished by the wave of red-hot rage and desperation when Dean tugs him further into the room.

It’s stupid to even attempt to fight back, as bound as he is, but he tries. His older brother taught him some dirty gutter moves, quick and nasty street-fighting, and he slips into instinct as he bucks, thrashes, and at one point, bites in his bid for freedom. He’s viciously thrilled when his heel connects solidly to Dean; he relishes the pained huff of air and wheezing curses as Dean struggles to gain footing against him. Sam’s got the element of surprise though, and he’ll milk it for all he can.

All his fight is for nothing—he knew it wouldn’t work, but that doesn’t prevent the sick feelings of hopelessness that crawls up his spine. Sam doesn’t even know how Dean does it. One moment he’s aiming to put a knee into Dean’s ribs and the next he’s meeting the carpet face first with Dean’s weight pressing him into the flooring, hard. They’re both panting, and he feels the jerk as Dean tosses his head like a horse, snorting hard as he tries to catch his breath. “What the hell was _that_ about?”

Sam growls, squirming and trying to buck again half-heartedly, but he knows that he’s going to wind up on that bed. He didn’t realize just how strong Dean was… it was apparent his master was hands-on with the horses. Dean gives him a little shake, pressing him harder into the floor. “I want an answer, kid. What the fuck was that all about?”

He grimaces as the rug burns his cheek when he twists his head, and he can’t see Dean for the shag of his hair in his eyes, but he still tries to glare. Tries to steady his voice when he growls, “You’re not gonna fuck me without a fight. I won’t let you.”

Dean stills, the tension in him loosening a little. “What?”

“’s what you bought me for, right? Blake told me all about it, how you buy boys and use them until they’re dead, and then throw them out and get new ones. He said he heard them screaming before, begging you not to.” His voice is quivering so he shuts up, trying to hold onto the bravado.

“Jesus Christ on a cracker.” Dean drops his head between Sam’s shoulder blades, sighing. “That’s not going to happen, kid. Got it?” When Sam snorts in disbelief, Dean grinds his hips onto the bone of Sam’s own, snarling. “You feel that? That lying to you, son?” Dean’s voice has changed, dropped a little lower and a lot huskier, with a bit of a drawl, but Sam doesn’t care about that.

There’s no hardness between Dean’s legs. The man is completely flaccid, and that just doesn’t compute with what Blake told him. Something is very, very wrong here.

Dean growls a bit before pushing himself upright, and tugging Sam to his feet. “Just, get some sleep, okay? I’m too fucking tired to deal with this tonight. You gotta take a leak?” Sam shakes his head, too twisted around to worry much about it, and Dean nods. He leads Sam not to the bed, but to a spot on the wall. It’s a closet, empty and bare, and lacking a wooden door. Instead, there’s a panel of straight bars, each about the width of his thumb, and close together. Dean’s fingers tighten on his arm, and Sam winces, already dreading the bruises he’s accumulated tonight. “You run, you’re going to regret it. Got it?”

Sam nods his understanding and Dean unclips his wrists and leash before opening the door and guiding Sam in. “There’d be a bed for you, but you’re still considered under lockdown until I deem otherwise. Behave and you’ll get some creature comforts.” Dean locks the door before stepping away and ducking into what Sam assumes is the bathroom from the subsequent noises of water he hears. A few minutes later Dean dims the lights to barely visible before sliding into that monster of a bed.

“Just get some sleep, Sam.” That’s pretty damned easy for his master to say. He’s not the one whose entire world has been flipped around and shaken hard. Sam just huddles against the wall, listening to Dean’s quiet breathing in the dark, and tries to ignore the cold ball of dread in his belly.

 

~~*^*~~


	7. Collared, Chapter 7

  
_I do apologize in advance here, for the super-delay. I mentioned it in prior posts, but real life has been uber-crazy.  And then Sam has been fighting me tooth and nail on this one. I about gave up. I may still wind up altering parts of this; if I do, I'll note it in the next chapter. It won't be anything vital to the plot, just trying to make it smoother. :/_

_Once again,[](http://insertcode11.livejournal.com/profile)_[ **insertcode11**](http://insertcode11.livejournal.com/) pulled my bacon outta the frying pan. She's amazing and awesome, and made this a helluva lot easier to read and understand. She's done two now, and I'm forever in her debt for the massive work she's done. Any remaining errors are mine from playing a bit more after she shipped it back. ^_^

 

 

~~*^*~~

Sam dozes throughout the night, not quite sleeping, and jarring awake abruptly any time the sheets rustle in the darkness. His mind won’t quiet, spinning fast and chattering like a squirrel at him, conflicted and torn about his new master. The darkness has just lightened to a slightly more visible grey when he finally quiets it by promising to just wait and see. Dean hasn’t hurt him yet, and he’s being taken care of really well.

He scrambles to his feet when Robert opens the door almost silently, maneuvering around the darkness with an enviable ease as he approaches Dean’s sleeping form. Sam’s torn about saying something to alert Dean, suddenly wary of the bodyguard, but Robert just crouches by the bed, and shakes Dean awake gently. “Come on boy, time to join the living again.” Dean makes an unhappy noise, curling up tighter it appears, and the man chuckles. “I know, but Allie made cinnamon rolls. With cream cheese icing, and you know how rare that is. And Kaz is waiting for you.” That last bit seems to get through to the master, and Dean sits up on his elbows, rubbing an eye and trying to glare at Robert.

“Kaz?”

“Mmm. Apparently, he’s been causing hell down there all morning. Stephan is blaming the fact that your newest slave is up here instead of down there.” Dean sits up more fully, grumbling something under his breath that makes Robert laugh and clap him on the shoulder as he stands up. “You freshen up, Princess, and tend to that slave of yours, and I’ll get you some coffee.” Robert gives Sam a once over as he passes, but seems to otherwise pretend he’s not there. Dean just sits there for a few more moments, blinking sleepily, before sighing heavily and tossing off the blankets.

“Alright, I guess we’re up.” Dean pauses by the bars, eyeing Sam. “You’re not going to make me leash you up while you piss, are you?”

He doesn’t seem happy, and Sam’s not a fool. “No sir.”

“Good. Wait a minute, okay?” Dean doesn’t bother waiting for an answer, just ducks back into the same room he disappeared into last night, and shuts the door. It’s only for a few minutes though, and then Dean’s back out and unlatching the ‘closet’. “Alright. Do _not_ try anything foolish, got me? Go in, do your business, come out. We clear?” Sam nods, and Dean steps back, letting him into the bathroom.

He really shouldn’t be surprised by now, but the extravagance of the bathroom sets him back for a minute. The walls are covered with teal tiles, but the floor, the shower, and the sink look like they’re made of stone. His bladder throbs warningly, and he decides to hold off his inspection, and find the toilet, which, after some investigation, is behind a small wall, nestled in a nook.

Sam does his business, and then tries to figure out how to flush the thing. He takes a step back to glance at the side, and the thing flashes for a moment, and then flushes itself. Great, his master has possessed appliances.

That thought is just confirmed when the sink turns on without his help too.

The hand towel is simple, at least, draped over a bar above the table holding a pitcher and a bowl of water. Sam really wants to investigate a bit more, but he’s expecting Dean to break through the door any minute, so he promises himself a better look later.

Sure enough, Dean is right outside the bathroom door, already dressed and leash in hand. Sam submits to being led quietly, noticing that there are more slaves and activity bustling around as Dean winds them back through the house, and into a dining room. “Alright, here’s the deal. I’ve got some things to get done this morning, so Robert will keep an eye on you. Probably, you’ll go back beside Kaz for a bit, until things settle down. I don’t know how long it’ll take, but it will likely take the better part of the morning,” his master explains before handing his lead over to the bodyguard. “Bobby, I’m going to go deal with Kaz, and get those geldings cleaned up for the Sheffields. Dad has two at his place he thinks they may want, so he’ll be bringing them by in a bit. Have him put them in the show corral, and then come get me, if I’m not back by then.”

And with that, Dean strides off, leaving Sam alone with the burly man. Robert eyes him for a moment before kicking out a chair, gesturing for Sam to sit. “Sit, eat. Don’t have a lot of time today, kid. Eat your fill, but don’t laze around it, got it?” Sam nods, tense and wary of the whole situation, but Robert ties the end of his leash around the chair in a quick-release knot, and settles into another chair to wrap his scarred hands around a mug of coffee. “You want any coffee, kid?” Sam shakes his head, so Robert shrugs, and that seems to pretty well be the end of the conversation.

There’s a platter of cinnamon rolls setting in the center of the table, with a neat stack of plates and cutlery to the side of it. He doesn’t hesitate to pluck a pastry off the platter and onto a small plate, tearing into with gusto. His belly has gotten used to regular and decent meals, and the absence of his supper last night made him all the more aware of how empty it was overnight.

The roll is gone quicker than he expected, and Sam eyes the plate, considering how rude it would be to take another. The platter is full, and he can hear the clatter of dishes and the bangs of pans not far off, through the door at the end of the room if his ears are correct. He’s not sure how many have eaten, and it would be more proper to just content himself with the one. But the cinnamon roll just took the edge off, didn’t really fill him…

“Get another one boy.” Sam about falls off his chair, startling at Robert’s gruff command after the interlude of quiet, and feels the warmth flood his face. He doesn’t dare look up, just meekly gets another pastry, like he was told. He just wants the last 24 hours to have been a really bad dream, and go back to his little stall, where things made sense, and he knew what to expect.

It’s a relief when Robert does just that, letting Sam curl up tightly in the corner of the stall, and the familiar scents and sounds wash over him, soothing and relaxing the stress away.

~~*^*~~

  
Dean’s office is a lot lighter than the other rooms he’s seen, the mottled cream of the walls lightening the dark russet carpeting. The left wall has bookshelves lining it, stuffed full, and drawing the eye to the imposing wooden desk that faces the door. It’s like most of the furniture he’s seen in the house; big and solid and pre-Restart, but bearing marks of actual use. Two chairs sit facing the desk, so the guests have a spectacular view of the land via the oversized glass windows, but with their back to the door. The right wall has some photographs hanging above a few medals and trophies, and horses seem to be the common theme in it. Sam has a few seconds to take it in, before Robert shuts the door behind them, and settles into the leather chair that’s just beside the entryway. Dean pushes away from his desk a bit, leaning down and rummaging in a drawer, before pulling out a small jar.

“Okay, first punishment.” And just like that, the rich lassitude from the morning disappears as his stomach packs the cinnamon roll into a cold, tight knot in his belly. Dean leads him to the right wall, to a cold black tile that’s been laid on the carpeting, before unscrewing the lid of the jar and dumping the contents on the tile. Sam frowns at what looks like uncooked rice, confused, when Dean’s voice makes him startle. “Alright, you know why you’re being punished?”

Sam nods, still trying to figure it out, and when the quiet drags on long enough, glances up to see an amused but exasperated gaze watching him. Oh. “Because I tried to kill myself?”

Dean tips his head a little. “Yeah, but why does that warrant a punishment?” It’s the first time that Dean’s shown any sign of being slow, and he thinks quickly through what else Dean might mean. But there’s nothing else, so he repeats himself a little slower.

“Because I tried to kill myself?”

The snort from the door coincides with Dean scrubbing a hand over his mouth, and Sam’s really not sure why they’re amused. “Okay, yes. Remember the rules I laid out, that first day?” Sam nods, remembering cold tiles under his feet and terror thrumming through him clearly. “And what rule did you break?”

“Don’t cause injury to any of your property?” Dean nods, but his eyes are still expectant, so Sam tries to define it a little more. “Property being any person, animal or thing, right?”

“Yeah, but more to the point, _you_ are my property. Things I can replace. You, I can’t.” Which doesn’t make sense, because Dean’s rich, and there’s plenty of other slaves in the world he could use to replace Sam. Dean taps the underside of Sam’s jaw, bringing his attention back to his master. “You. I can replace a slave, yes. I can’t replace you. And I don’t take kindly to someone trying to harm my slaves, even if it’s self-inflicted. Got it?” Sam nods, though, really, he doesn’t understand. The concept is there, but he’s not sure how exactly it applies here. But he nods anyway, because he’s really not interested in upsetting Dean any more than he has. “Alright. You’ll get five occurrences: two today, one tomorrow, and two the day after. Right now…” he gestures to the tile, “you kneel. Do you know what the slave pose is?”

“No?”

Dean quirks a grin at him, eyes sparkling again. “Alright. Kneel down.” The grain bites a little sharply into his knees and shins, but it’s not unbearable, and he wonders again about his master’s mental stability. Dean uses light touches to bring his wrists together behind his back, heels together and back straight. “Classically, you’re supposed to bow your head, but I want your head up.” There’s a small smudge on the wall, right in front of him, and that’s about all he can see. A long, long expanse of cream color, the mottling blurring in his peripheral, and it’s boring already. “Now, think about what we just discussed, how you broke the rules. You don’t get to move, until I tell you to. Squirming adds on more time, got it?” Sam nods, and Dean pets him once before moving away.

There’s a rustle of paper at the desk, and then the room goes quiet and still.

Sam tries, he really does, but the quiet is boring, and there’s nothing to really focus on, other than the sharpness of the rice digging into his skin, and the smudge that isn’t nearly as riveting as it could be. He startles when behind him Dean growls, “Stop moving.” Sam slumps a little in agitation. “Sam. Back into position. First and only warning dude, before you get a longer time.”

He wants to throw a tantrum, say “screw it” and rebel, but really… this isn’t the beating he was expecting. It’s just mind-numbingly boring, and so he settles in and tries to think of things other than the occasional quiet noise behind him, or the almost-itching-pain in his shins. For the first time, he’s actually starting to regret trying those crystals, because this is unbearable. He’d much rather be sorting leather, listening to the horse-sounds and free to move and fidget and squirm than to sit here quietly and _think_.

His mind wanders, until Dean calling his name startles him abruptly. “Okay, first bit is up. Stand up, brush off the rice, and walk a circuit of the room.” Sam’s unbelievably grateful, eyes darting from picture to picture, off medals and the design of the ribbons, to trying to catch a glance of Bobby’s book, when he passes him by the door. Then it’s catching titles of books, despite them being sideways, and the odd little knick-knacks sitting tucked into corners, when he sees the actual view from the window.

The fields spread out like a blanket below them, white fences fitted together like blocks, and there’s a surprising number of people milling around the plethora of grey horses. The area closest has mostly foals, it looks like, legs gangly and awkward as they chase each other, kicking up heels and dashing around. Something niggles at his mind, but Dean clearing his throat disrupts the idea. He glances at his  master, turning proper when it’s apparent Dean has a question. “What did you learn, Sam?”

“It’s boring” tumbles out of his mouth before he can stop it, and horror lights through him as Dean barks a laugh. It takes a few moments until Dean regains control, despite the smile still, and Sam fidgets.

“Yup, it’s supposed to be. You’re doing penance, after all. Not supposed to be fun. Besides that, did you learn anything?” Sam runs through options, his observations from walking around, but Dean shakes his head. “No, you didn’t. I can tell. Kneel again, like before. Another twenty minutes.”

~~*^*~~

  
They repeat it three more times, before Sam realizes what he’s supposed to learn. He actually twists in place, watching Dean with wide eyes when it sinks in, the idea a little foreign, and he’s sure he has it wrong when he blurts out “You actually care about your slaves.”

Dean just smiles though, leaning back in his chair and folding his arms across his chest. “And why do you say that?”  
“It’s true. That’s why you made me think about it, that’s why you didn’t beat me, isn’t it?” His brain keeps tripping on the idea, but he can’t shake it, and he can’t fully fathom it.

“Very good, Sam. You’re almost done then.” Dean hands over the jar, gesturing to the tile. “Pick up every grain of rice, and you can go.” It feels like a minute later that he’s handing the full jar back, and Dean nods. “Bobby, please take Sam down to the barn, and let him work on the leather for a bit while I finish these papers. Sam, you did very well. You still have four more punishments, but you did a good job.”

The praise blooms warm in his chest, and he ducks his head to hide the pleasure that warms his face. He doesn’t even mind the slave that sits in the doorway and watches him as he sorts out the tack.  
   


~~*^*~~

  
Sam almost wonders if Dean has forgotten about him, when dusk starts to make it harder to see. He heard the horses arriving a while ago, but nobody has come to claim him. He ignores the uneasy curling in his empty belly, relying more on feel than sight to sort the last few reins, stacking them neatly in their respective piles.

He’s just laid the last one aside when he hears Dean’s murmur further down the aisle, and he scrambles to his feet, dusting off the clinging dust and straw.

 It’s still a few minutes before his master actually opens the door, and Dean looks somber. Sam falters a little, uneasy with the sudden change in atmosphere, even less pleased when Dean nods to the other slave, who leaves without a backward glance. “Alright Sam, come on. Let’s get this over with.”

Robert is standing just past the stall door, hidden from view earlier, but nods his head down towards where the shower area is. Sam’s confused, but he follows along, trying to calm his nerves. Sure enough, the room is exactly the same, but instead of turning left to the showers, Dean steers him right, to a little nook in the wall he hadn’t noticed before. It’s small, barely wide enough for his shoulders to fit, and no room to really move. There’s a single large showerhead directly above the spot, but no dials or knobs inside. “Alright, punishment two, my dear slave,” Dean starts as he undoes the soft leather collar and wrist cuffs. “While you’re in here, I want you to think about your mistake and the consequences, okay? You learned this morning what I wanted. Same principle here, only you don’t get the breaks, unless you’re really bull-headed.” Dean leads Sam into the small cubicle, and Sam has just enough time to turn a confused look to both men before Dean moves something on the wall.

Sam has a split-second to recognize the sound as rushing water, before the showerhead above him unloads a torrent of water. And oh holy goats, it’s _cold._ The full-body flinch is instinctive, and does absolutely nothing but bring him in contact with the cold tiles. Crouching does nothing either…. The showerhead is positioned so nothing really works, and he can’t get away from the torrential deluge of icy water pelting him. “Think Sam. Sooner you get the idea, the sooner you get out.”

Sam bites his tongue hard, hard enough to taste copper, to keep the sharp retort in his mouth. Gods almighty, but this was an unjust punishment. He can’t think beyond the animalistic need to get away from the frigid water; can’t really think of whatever it is that his demented master wants him to contemplate. A sly drop snakes its way into his ear, sharp and stabbing pain, and it prompts him to start offering any word, any _combination_ of words that will make it stop.

He has no clue how long he’s under in, only knows his fingers and toes have long-since gone numb, and his chattering teeth have nicked his tongue more than once before his brain rolls over and finally spits out something that makes Dean turn off the water. Sam can’t convince the cold-frozen muscles to unlock enough to move, just huddles there, panting. He flinches sharply when Dean drops a warm and thick towel over him, tugging it around until Sam manages to grip it tightly with cold fingers as Dean clips his lead back onto the damp leather. “That’s a good boy.” It takes a few minutes before he’s up on his feet, and he feels like he’s stumbling around like a new colt, but the hope of a warm shower is powerful motivation. “Alright Sammy, you did good today. Little reward for it, okay?”

“It’s Sam,” he chances, pleased when his teeth don’t chatter, and perversely pleased to hear the soft chuckle.

“Yeah, alright. Come on, let’s get you inside and warmed up now, yeah?” He’s disappointed when they pass the shower he’s used to, and he resigns himself to the fact that he’s not getting a warm shower today, or any cleaner than he already is. Part of him can’t really bring himself to care, though. His belly is empty and upset about it, and he’s exhausted, moreso than he can remember for a long time.

The aroma infusing the kitchen as they walk through is rich and homey, and Sam’s mouth starts watering as his nose identifies baking bread and the rich, sultry scent of a chicken soup. He presses his arm against his gurgling stomach, trying desperately to ignore the aching gnaw of it, and follows Dean silently up the stairs and back to the master bedroom. The room has been tided; the bed is made neat and crisp again, and there’s a small pile of folded clothes perched on a corner, and the drapes have been tugged open, flooding the room with silvery moonlight through the tall glass windows. The view is similar to the one in Dean’s office, and Sam gets a little taken in with the haunting view of a few pale deer nibbling their way along the edge of the darker forests, and the empty corrals that seem forlorn. He startles sharply when Dean nudges his shoulder, trying to get his attention.

“Spacing out? It’s a nice view, I know, but I think we should get you warmed up before you freeze. Come on.” Dean guides him into the bathroom, tugging the door shut behind them. “Alright, if I’m nice and let you shower without your cuffs and collar, am I gonna have a fight on my hands?” Dean asks as he crosses his arms across his chest, watching Sam intently. The idea of any sort of a fight is almost funny, considering how utterly weary he is, and he shakes his head, trying to stay upright. Dean’s quiet for a few more moments before he takes a step closer and removes the clinging and cold leather bands, setting them on the sink. “Okay then. Shower setup is the same as down in the stables, so go ahead and get in and get warmed up. I’ll set some towels out for you, and I’ll be in the room.” Dean pauses, catching Sam’s eye, and the emerald gaze is stern and serious. “There’s no other way out of this room, so don’t try anything.”

“Okay.” Dean nods, and steps out, mostly shutting the door behind him. He really kind of wants to do little more than curl up and sleep for awhile, but he manages to motivate himself enough to step into the huge shower, and the surprise of seeing several water nozzles along the wall is enough to jolt him a little more aware. It’s a quick matter to crank on the water and adjust it to a nice warm temp, and he quickly shucks out of his damp clothes and into the warm space. At the first assault of the heated water pounding from several locations, Sam barely bites back a groan of appreciation, shivering as the heat sends weird chills along his spine. The stones are warm when he presses a tentative shoulder against them, and prove to be perfect for slumping against, letting the heat settle deep into his bones.

Dean’s inquiry of “ _Sam, you okay in there?”_ startles him awake, and he blinks uncomprehendingly at the blurry form on the other side of the glass for a moment before answering. “Um, yeah. Yeah, I’m fine.”

There’s a long pause before Dean answers, “Alright then.” Sam sighs in relief when the blur moves away again. The water temperature hasn’t changed any, so he forces himself to hurriedly scrub his hair clean and work the washcloth over himself before the water cools down. He’s loath to turn off the water, but the promise of sleep is a bit stronger. True to Dean’s word, there’s two towels draped over the bar, within easy reach, and he’s a bit interested to see it’s the same thick, fluffy material that he used in the stables, but not as surprised as he would have been yesterday. Dean is proving to be nothing he expected, and the constant contradiction is dizzying and disorienting. Sam pushes it away though, and snugs the towel around his waist tightly before stepping carefully on the floor. His clothes that were on the floor are gone, and the butterflies in his stomach offer a half-hearted quiver before they settle again.

When he pushes open the door to the bedroom, the pile of folded clothes is missing from the end of the bed, and Dean’s back is turned to him, gazing out that massive window as he leans against the edge of the frame. He doesn’t look like he’s really seeing the scenery, eyes not tracking and a little unfocused. Sam _really_ doesn’t want to disturb him, but he’s also not about to wander around in only a towel, either. He inches a little closer, and Dean jerks out of his apparent musing, rubbing the back of his neck as he turns away from the window. “Why didn’t you get dressed?”  
Sam’s confusion must show, because Dean leads him back into the bathroom, gesturing to the stack of folded clothes on the table that held the pitcher and bowl this morning. “Your old ones are set to be washed, and we’ll get them back to you tomorrow. I figured you might like a clean change of clothes though.”

Considering he’d been wearing the same ones for several weeks now, that’s not really an unreasonable suspicion. Dean chuckles and leaves Sam to get dressed, making some humming noises in the bedroom, and Sam curiously unfolds the clothes. They’re softer than he’s used to, but the same quality that infuses everything he’s touched since he arrived at this place. He dresses quickly, noting with some amusement the different choices put out for him, and gathers up the rest, taking them with him to return to Dean.

“There now, warmer than before?” Dean grins, motioning Sam closer to where he’s sitting on the bed.

Sam nods, before holding out the unused clothing. “Um, here.”

“Just put ‘em somewhere, then come for a moment.” Sam nods, setting the stack on the edge of a chest of drawers before approaching Dean again, noting the wrap and gauze beside Dean’s thigh. He hesitated for just a moment before kneeling down, offering up his wrists. The pleased smile that flitted across Dean’s mouth was sort of worth it, and he lets the warmth bloom in his chest as Dean inspects the blisters on his wrists. “They’re looking really good, Sam. I really don’t think these will scar if you keep taking care of them,” the master murmurs as he deftly coated them in the balm before wrapping them again, and sealing the deal with a new set of the soft deerskin cuffs. A touch of calloused fingers to his jaw, a few moments of staring at the painted ceiling while Dean checks where Blake’s collar had chafed, and Dean deems him fit and ready for food.

Dean leads him around and through to the dining room, tugging a chair out with his foot and pointing to it as he slips into what Sam thinks is the kitchen. He’s starting to get a brief feel for how the house is laid out, but he hasn’t been in the kitchen enough to really get a feel for its size and placement. He’s just easing down into the chair when Dean comes back through, flipping through a large stack of mail as he settles in the chair to Sam’s left, at the only chair on the end. Dean ignores him for a few minutes, until Robert comes in and settles across from Sam, followed by the blond woman from last night. _Allie_ , his mind prompts, and then his attention quickly shifts from her to the food in her hands. She’s pushing a small cart, and the aroma makes his belly _snarl_ , loud enough that Robert smothers a snort, and Allie grins at him as she sets a pot of soup a little in front of Dean, a basket overflowing with bread,  a dish of butter, and a stack of utensils and dishes before she steps back, dusting her hands off. “Okay, my boys. What do you all want to drink?”

Both Dean and Robert tell her ‘the usual’, and he’s not exactly sure what to answer when she turns that sharp focus to him. He stutters out ‘water’, and she chuckles, shaking her head. “My, aren’t you just like a little puppy. Entirely too adorable for your own good.” She pats his shoulder as she passes him, with a definite amused air to her. He’s not exactly sure what he did, but he doesn’t care much either. He’s too absorbed in the bowl of aromatic golden delight that Dean sets in front of him to pay much heed to anyone else. The soup is rich, and as it washes over his tongue, his shoulders slip down, tension bleeding out. It’s not the same as his family’s, but its chicken soup and there are little dollops of dumplings and wide noodles swimming in the broth, and it still strikes of home. The warmth curls in his belly like a sleepy cat, all pleasure and contentment, and he can’t quite contain the sigh of appreciation.

His bowl is half gone before he notices that there’s a plate of buttered bread beside him, and that Allie set a mug of what smells like apple cider by the glass of water he’d asked for. He glances around to thank her, but the kitchen is dark, and both the other men are focused on their meal.

The only downside to the meal comes on the heels of scraping his bowl clean with the last bit of crust, when he settles back contently. The spicy cider and warm soup combines with the lethargy from earlier, and it’s not that big a surprise when Dean has to shake him awake so Robert can take their dishes. He stumbles after his master, not really aware of where they’re going, so he’s a little bewildered when they’re back in Dean’s room.

“Kid, you aren’t staying awake any longer. If you promise me not to cause any trouble, I’ll let you sleep now, and I’ll just come up later. You realize how much trust I’m extending here?” Sam makes sure to meet the green gaze solidly when he nods, too exhausted to even _think_ of causing any mischief. Dean unclips his lead, and lets him into the closet, latching the door firmly. “I’ll leave the lights on for you, but I’ll dim them so you can sleep.” Sam doesn’t care about the lights, already curling up and giving up the fight against his heavy eyelids. There’s a pause as the room gets darker, and then Dean’s footsteps fade. “Sleep well, Sammy.”

He does.

~~*^*~~

  



	8. "Collared", chapter 8

_Okay, after several months, I FINALLY have new "Collared" for ya'll. I know, I know, and I'm so sorry it took so long!! Some news:_

_-I will not be answering any comments on this until the next chapter goes up. After posting the new chapter, I will come back and answer questions on the last chapter._

_-[](http://insertcode11.livejournal.com/profile)[ **insertcode11**](http://insertcode11.livejournal.com/) is done with the SPN community. Sadly, she was also beta-ing my fics. I've posted on SPNBetas, but got no hits back. Anyone who is familiar with "Collared", and doesn't mind running a beta on the next XX chapters, please, get in touch with me. For that same reason, please, for the love of chocolate-dipped monkeys,_ let me know if something is wrong in the text below!! _I've read over it six times now, but that doesn't always mean much.. /o\_

_-Also, I want to extend a severe thanks to[](http://jensenlover89.livejournal.com/profile)[ **jensenlover89**](http://jensenlover89.livejournal.com/) for her stunning and awesome work on the new banner. She rocks, folks. Like, majorly and massively._

_Okay, after 112 hours of editing on this beast, here's more. Enjoy._

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Sam wakes up slowly, dragged away from the quiet darkness by the throbbing of his bladder rather than any desire on his part. It takes him a few minutes of blinking blearily at the ceiling to realize he’s partially covered by a blanket. He’s clutching the top half to his chest, but the lower part is still tucked around him, and he’s a little confused. He doesn’t remember waking up at all during the night, and he’s wary to think Dean would have covered him at some point. But Dean’s the only one that he’s seen with a key to the lock at the top of the door so far.

He’s just starting to stretch when Robert opens the door, and it’s amusing to realize that Dean is just not a morning person as the guard tries to rouse the master again. Again, it’s the mention of that Satan’s Steed that actually gets the man moving, grumbling unhappily as he stumbles towards the bathroom, scrubbing at his eyes.

The look of warm fondness on Robert’s face is surprising, to say the least.

Dean comes back, smelling of soap and looking more awake, and unlatches the wire door, yawning still. “Alright, same as yesterday. Just do what you need to, and get back out here. Don’t make me come in there.” Sam nods, and slips into the bathroom, shivering at the chill in the air. He’s groggy, in the way that makes him feel like he either slept a few short minutes, or slept for days, and it’s disorienting to be a little unclear on what day it is. The warm water he splashes on his face helps chase away a bit of the sleepiness though, and he sighs, not really wanting to go back out for the next day of punishments. But as Dean said yesterday… there’s only one way out of the room.

When he gets back out, his master is tying the last set of laces on his boots, and Sam waits, not quite sure what to do just yet. Dean watches him for a long moment before sighing, and pushing himself up to his feet. “Okay, back in you go.” He gestures towards the ‘closet’ Sam sleeps in now, and Sam’s confused, but obliges. And barely manages to suppress the flicker of panic when Dean locks the door again. “Alright, remember how I said the second day was a single punishment?” He gestures to the setup. “You wanted to do the deed, so now you’re serving the time. And during your time today, I want you to think about something. Your people, they believe that if you take your own life, you become a spirit, to walk the earth, right?” At Sam’s nod, he continues. “As such, you’re a ghost today. Nobody will see you, or interact with you. Robert will come up twice today, to give you your meals, and to let you use the bathroom. Otherwise… for the rest of the day, you’ll get your wish.” Dean watched him for a long moment before nodding firmly to himself, and just… leaving, the door latching loudly in the sudden quiet behind him.

Sam fidgets for a moment, half expecting Dean to open the door and say “gotcha” or something, but the quiet just drags on, and he eventually sits, drawing his knees up to his chest as he watches the door intently.

It’s not much longer before he starts humming, and then talking aloud to himself, trying to break the quiet that rings in his ears and presses against him. He jumps when the door suddenly opens, admitting a young man Sam’s never seen.

“Hey!” The male never even flicks his gaze to Sam, ignoring him intently as he strips off the sheets and blankets on the bed, ignoring anything that Sam says. He just gathers up the clothes and things from the bathroom, and leaves too.

A shiver runs down Sam’s spine, and he never even notices when he starts yelling, pounding on the wall in a desperate attempt to get _anyone_ to hear him, to notice him.

 

 

 

 

“Dean?” The master holds up a hand, eyes never leaving the stallion on the end of the longe rope. Kaz may dislike the longeing, but Dean preferred to occasionally go back to the basics. Today was the verbal whoa, and Dean was pleased that Kaz didn’t pay any attention to Bobby’s voice, his attention 100% on Dean. He gave another ‘whoa’, tucking up the excess line as he walked up to where Kaz was standing, before leading the stallion to the fence. “You may want to check on the kid.”

That didn’t sound promising. “Bobby, you know the rules.”

“I know, but the maid said he’s really freaking out. Didn’t you say he was…”

“Shit.” Dean shoves the rope into Bobby’s hands, ducking under the fencing and racing to the house. Stupid, stupid, stupid. He knew better. Allie startles when Dean bursts through the door, taking the steps two at a time. He pauses for just a moment outside the door, catching his breath, before opening the door. No point in startling the kid worse than he already is.

Sam’s curled into a ball in the corner of the closet, rocking back and forth a little as he mutters to himself. Damnit, but Dean knows better, and his heart is heavy and aching as he unlocks the door, opening it. “Sam?”

It takes a moment, but Sam looks up, eyes a little wild and terrified, before he launches himself at Dean, shaking hard and all but trying to burrow his way through Dean’s stomach. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Sam chants, and Dean sighs, pissed at himself for the stupidity. He pets Sam a little, finger combing out the snarls as Sam stutters for a moment before starting a new litany of apologies, pleas for forgiveness and promises to never do anything again.

It takes awhile before Sam starts to calm down, and Dean shifts, wincing as Sam digs fingers into his back even more. “Sam, I’m sorry. I didn’t think about how inappropriate this punishment really was for you.” Sam shakes his head against Dean’s stomach, breath hitching for a moment. “It’s okay, I’ve gotcha. I’m not going to leave you up here, okay?” He repeats it a few more times, until Sam eases up his grip, his breath a little steadier, even if he won’t look up.

It goes against just about everything Dean has ever stood by, been taught and believes in to start to tug away after a few minutes, catching Sam’s wrists in a grip as he waits for the hazel eyes to calm down and focus on him. “Sam, I can’t stay up here with you all day. I’ve got things that have to be done, okay?” He hates this, hates the fact that he put Sam into this position, broke the fragile trust Sam was showing, and _damnit_. Sam starts shaking his head, breath faster as he edges towards panic, and Dean gives the thin wrists in his grip a shake. “Hey, I told you, I’m not leaving you up here. Got it? I mean it.” It’s almost deja-vu while he’s waiting for Sam to calm down, and he carefully lets go of Sam’s wrists. “You want to take a shower?”

 

“No.” The slave’s voice is thin and cracked, and it speaks of his terror that he’s actually speaking, and Dean tries to ignore how he wraps his arms tighter around himself and shakes.

 

“Alright, then how about you change and clean up a little? I’ll stay right here, okay?” He tries using the same voice he does on the yearlings; coaxing and cajoling and just the slightest breath of steel, and Sam responds like most of the foals do. He nods shakily, watching Dean constantly as he shucks his clothes and shimmies into the ones that Dean hands over. He leaves the bathroom door open and never ducks out sight as he scrubs his face with the soap and brushes his teeth, and he’s all but tripping over himself as he tries to get back to Dean proper.

Dean makes sure to keep a firm grip on Sam’s shoulder as he guides the kid downstairs, directing him into the kitchen where he can hear the firm and stern voice of Allie over the clatter of dishes and pots. “I’ve got to get back out to Kaz, okay? I would stay with you if I could, but he’s not going to understand why, so I’m going to leave you with Allie.” Sam nods shakily, thumb rubbing hard over his knuckles as he fidgets, and Dean kicks himself again for good measure. He gets Sam settled on a stool close to the ovens, and then snags Allie’s arm as he ducks them out of the way; too far for Sam to hear them, but still close enough that they’re in full view. “Listen, I need a favor from you.”

 

Allie dusts her hands off on her jeans and tips her head in askance. “Keep an eye on him?”

 

Dean grins, letting a little of the tension fade away. “Yeah. I kinda fucked up, and he needs someone keeping a close eye on him. I can’t, not with Kaz. Not today.” Allie nods, and shoos him. “You’ll be careful with him?”

 

“Dean, this isn’t the first slave you’ve left in my care, and I really doubt it’ll be the last. Get back to your colt,” she chides, and he presses a kiss to her cheek.

 

“You’re awesome. Remind me to give you the week of Christmas off this year, yeah?” He waits a moment longer, making sure Sam seems pretty settled, and when that hazel gaze is curiously focused on Allie and her low murmurs, he ducks out and makes his way across the fields again. It’s the best he can do with the situation right now, and he tries to let that settle his mind as he runs a hand along the silky fur of his stallion. Kaz blows a questioning snort into his hair, muscles shifting as he shifts his weight a bit, and Dean tries to finish leashing his frustration and anger.

 

 

 

 

A few hours later, he gives up on any pretenses of trying to stay focused, and lets Kaz have his freedom again. The equine doesn’t seem keen on the idea, keeping an eye on Dean as he grazes with the younger colts.

 

“Brooding again?” Bobby asks, leaning on the fence and watching the horses. Dean snorts, smothering a chuckle as Kaz instantly lifts his head to check on Dean.

 

“Not brooding, just….” He sighs, trailing off.

 

“Brooding.” Bobby smirks at him, and then goes serious. “He’ll be okay, you know. He’s in there talking with Allie, doesn’t seem to be upset in the least.”

 

Dean nods, eyes drifting over the paddocks as he tries to organize his thoughts. “I don’t think it’ll traumatize him any. I just should have known better.” Bobby harrumphs, and Dean flicks a glance at him. “You disagree?”

 

“Kid, listen to me, okay?” He’s somber and serious, something he rarely is when it’s just them, and Dean stills, actually listening to the older man and giving his full attention. “You’ve grown into a good man, you know that? You’re decent, loyal, and trustworthy, and it’s well-known. And that kid knows it too, even if he’s still fighting it. He knows you didn’t do it intentionally. You’re not cruel. You’re not an owner that gets off on torturing his slaves. You screwed up, you fixed it. Let it go, okay?” He sighs, and apparently Dean’s having trouble hiding his doubt in Bobby’s words. “Dean, you’re still young. You’re bound to make a few mistakes, yeah? Just… learn from them, and then pick yourself up and keep going. You didn’t rag on Kaz for weeks when he’d make a mistake. Just give yourself the same mercy, okay?”

It makes sense, even if it’s still hard to swallow, and Dean nods a little, shifting his weight as he props a foot up on the wooden board. “I suppose.”

 

The silence drifts back in, but it’s not strained or uncomfortable… just the same silence they’ve shared for years; easy and languid. The sun starts to set, casting long shadows as the horses are rounded up and taken inside for the night, Kaz bringing up the rear as usual. He pauses by the slave pen, ears pricked as he strains to see inside, and at the emptiness, stamps his foot in agitation. “He’s okay,” Dean murmurs, tugging on the halter until Kaz cooperates, sulking in his stall.

 

Bobby frowns, watching the stallion paw at the sawdust in his enclosure. “He’s acting rather unusual, isn’t he?” he asks as Dean slides the bolts closed.

 

“Yeah, he’s been like this since we moved Sam up to the main house.” Dean sighs, scrubbing a hand over his face. “It’s not like him to get so worked up over a slave. Hell, he doesn’t usually pay them much mind, even when they’re next door.” He grits his teeth, shivering hard as they enter the kitchen, the warmth a strong contrast to the cold that had settled in over the course of the day. “I dunno. If he doesn’t let it go, I may have to take Sam down and _show_ Kaz that he’s okay. It’s just weird.”

 

Bobby eyes him as he unlaces his boots. “You sure that’s a good idea?”

 

“Not much in other options. Sam’s sticking around for a while, and he seems to have gotten under Kaz’s skin. He was tolerable while Sam was down in the stables, but even Stephan’s been complaining that he’s fixated on that stall.” The whisper-quiet of Allie’s shoes on the tile catches his attention, and he can’t quite stop the smile that always appears for her. Until he realizes Sam’s not with her. Before he can even open his mouth to question, he hears the slave’s voice a little deeper in the kitchen, and realizes the room is lit from the walk-in fridge as well. The relief makes him a little dizzy, to be honest.

 

He’ll be thankful when his emotions can keep an even keel with this slave.

 

“That’s fine, Sam,” Allie calls back, and smirks at Dean. He rubs the back of his neck, rueful as she shakes her head in mirth. “He’s fine,” she murmurs to him.

 

“Today went okay?”

 

“It was fine.” She sighs, rolling her bottom lip into her mouth for a moment before she forges ahead. “He did excellent, actually. Have you thought about keeping him with people?”

 

Before Dean can press that line any further, Sam shuts the door, and suddenly the question makes sense. The kid is still tense, still wary like a wild thing, but there’s a calmer and more fluid feel to him. It takes him a moment before he can place where he’s seen it before, and then it clicks.

Sam’s realized he’s not in danger here. He’s more relaxed, and Dean catches Allie’s eyes, nods to show he understands what she’s trying to point out to him. She winks at him, and then launches into her usual break-down of the day as they make their way into the dining room, settling in as she brings out their meals. He’s surprised that Sam hasn’t eaten yet, but the boy tucks into his food in a way he hasn’t in the week he’s been there, and it just reassures him that he didn’t royally screw Sam over.

It’s been a long, hellacious day, and with the warmth of food in his belly, Dean’s keenly aware that he’s not going to be of value for much longer. He waves off the offer of dessert, and grins ruefully at Bobby. “Sorry old man, but I think it’s gonna be an early night tonight,” he offers, and laughs when Bobby nods, looking particularly smug with himself.

 

Sam’s quiet as he trails after Dean, settling easily on the edge of the bed as Dean tugs his shoes off and gathers his things. Dean eyes Sam for a long moment, weighing his choices, before nonchalantly making his way into the bathroom to flip on the stones. He flips on the water, listening to it patter against the rocks as he strips down easily, shoving the clothes into a corner and ducking into the shower. It had taken a lot of money, and a lot of bribes, but the shower was his indulgence, more than the horses his family was famous for, his decadent refuge from everything outside the glass wall.

 

He foggily sees a shape move in, and settle on the floor beside the glass doors, and grins at the surprised noise from Sam. “You okay?”

 

“Yeah… they’re warm.” He sounds confused and surprised, and Dean can’t stop the chuckle.

 

“They’re heated,” he corrects. He’d hated bathing in the winter when he was younger, dreaded stepping on the icy stones, and when he’d built the plans for this shower, it was a point he’d refused to give up. Instead, he’d gotten the thin electric coils running underneath the thin veneer of stone, both in the shower cubicle and on the floor outside, heating the rocks to a warm temperature. “You didn’t notice yesterday?”

He can see Sam shake his head, and he hums quietly to himself as he soaps up, letting the stress and tension fade away with the suds. “Dean?”

“Yeah?”

“Um… can I maybe help Allie again tomorrow? If it’s okay?” Sam asks tentatively, and Dean struggles to not show too much surprise.

 

“If you want, and it’s okay with her. Today went okay for you then?” He flips off the water, and opens the door just enough to fumble for his towel, burying his face in the warm plushness of it. “Well, considering,” he amends. Sam nods, toying with the hem on his jeans, and Dean makes a note to ask Allie. “Alright, I’ll check with her tomorrow. Did you want a shower tonight?” He tugs the towel tight around his waist before stepping out, watching Sam eye the cubicle for a moment before shaking his head.

 

He leaves the bathroom door open as he roots in his dresser, getting dressed in soft flannel pants, and he can hear Sam cleaning up, brushing his teeth, and generally avoiding coming back into the bedroom. Not that Dean’s surprised, but he’s already anticipated the battle ahead. He intentionally ignores the anxiety in Sam’s hazel eyes as he tends to the quickly fading welts and marks of Blake’s abuse, pleased at how quickly and cleanly they’re healing.

 

When he wipes his fingers on his pants, leaving a thin smear of the salve, Sam starts trembling, eyes flickering to the pen he’s usually in. And Dean can’t ignore the fear in the kid any longer. “Hey, look at me.” He waits until Sam’s focused on him, and he tries to figure out how best to word what he needs to say. “Look, today was a bitch, okay? But you did very well, and I’m very proud of how well you handled it, and how good you did. So I’m going to offer you a choice, okay?” He waits until Sam nods, and then he forges ahead. “If you want, and it’s up to you, you don’t have to sleep in there tonight.” Sam pales, trembling again, and Dean can almost see the thoughts tumbling around in that skull of his. He tugs Sam up onto the bed with him, pushing him closer to the far edge, and he can tell the instant that Sam sees what’s between his bed and the far wall, because the tension abruptly bleeds out of him.  
“Oh.”

 

Dean smirks at him. “Yeah, ‘oh’. We talked about this, didn’t we? That I don’t want you for a bed warmer?” He watches the pink flush the kid’s cheeks, and shakes his head. “You can either sleep there, or your usual spot, it’s up to you. This is your reward for today.”

 

He’s not surprised when Sam scrambles over the edge of the bed, not wasting any time before curling up on the cot that’s nestled in between the wall and the bed, blankets tugged up against his chin. “Yeah, that’s what I thought.” He flips on the bedside lamp before he turns off the overhead lights, sliding between the sheets with a soft sigh of pleasure. God, but the day was a bitch from hell, and he was thrilled it was finally over. He picked up his book, settling into the pages as he distantly listened to Sam settle in for the night, breaths not taking long at all to settle into the slow and steady cadence of sleep.

It’s not perfect, and he knows how badly he screwed up today, but he’s intensely proud of Sam, and for the first time, he has a lot of hope that they’ll both come through this on the other side.

 

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
